by Miles, Ava
Staring at the entrance to the mine was ghastly, but she couldn’t seem to look away. A pile of rubble and dirt had slid out of the man–made hole, and men were digging to make a path into the heart of the mine.
Arthur kept her close to him, introducing her with her fake name, saying she worked at The Western Independent with him. He asked each interviewee the same general set of questions, adding in a few new ones when the person went off on a useful tangent.
As the day progressed, they learned more about the men who were trapped in the mine. How Bill Powers was only twenty–three, the father of three girls, and helped out at his church. How Mathias Baconey was thirty–four, the father of five kids, and the best third baseman on the community baseball team. How Irving Walters was fifty–eight, the oldest miner in the group, the father of six kids, and the grandfather to twenty.
The stories were told in halting voices, the interviewees’ fear–glazed eyes never looking directly at their faces, but always at the entrance to the mine where the Rescue Team was frantically working.
The effort to dig the men out was slow and tedious because the rubble had frozen and was as hard as concrete.
Her nose ran from the blistering cold. Up this high on the mountain, the wind was brisk and icy. Her teeth chattered a few times, prompting Arthur to nudge her toward the coffee station that had been set up by a handful of women.
The coffee was stronger and more bitter than any she’d ever drunk, but she thanked the women and asked who they knew in the mine.
Arthur was teaching her how to talk to people in these situations.
And making her realize that sometimes the only comfort left to a person was to share his or her story and have someone listen.
She brought him a cup of coffee too, the white cup nicked at the top from use.
“Thanks,” he said, resting his notepad against his leg and drinking deep. “It sounds like it’s going to be a long one. Why don’t you take my car and head back to Dare? I can hitch a ride home with someone.”
She only shook her head. “I want to stay.”
Those blue eyes took her measure once again. “Okay. There are a few people leaving who can let Maybelline know you’re going to be with us for the duration.”
“Thank you. She would have been worried.”
“No doubt. Let’s take care of that, and then we can talk to someone on the Rescue Team. See if they’ve heard any of the men’s voices with their equipment.”
Arthur found a woman who was leaving, and Harriet gave her the information she’d need to get in touch with Maybelline. After thanking her, Arthur took Harriet’s elbow and led her away from Rescue Camp. Her skin grew tight as they walked toward the rope cordoning off the path to the mine. Harriet realized that if they hadn’t heard any of the men’s voices yet, the trapped men were either all dead or too deeply buried for the sound to travel.
She was almost afraid to find out.
Arthur took her elbow when she slipped on the dirty snow, his grip firm. She was glad he didn’t tell her to turn back.
“Paul,” he shouted when they reached the rope.
A man with an orange hard hat looked over his shoulder and then said something to the rest of the team before jogging toward them, his boots making huge muddy imprints in the snow.
The men shook hands. Arthur introduced Harriet and offered Paul a cigarette. The man took a long drag, his gaze searching over their shoulders for a moment, as if taking in the scene behind them.
“What can you tell me?” Arthur asked.
His eyes flicked to Harriet, a question in them.
“You can talk in front of her. She won’t say anything.”
“It’s bad,” he said. “We haven’t heard anything from the men, which means they’re in deep. We’re waiting for other rescue teams to show up and start shoveling, but there was a blizzard to the south and west of us last night. Crews are having trouble digging out of that, and the roads are shit.”
“What about the men from the surrounding towns?” Arthur asked.
“I’m about ready to ask for volunteers.”
Arthur handed her his notepad. “You’re looking at one.”
Harriet turned to stare at him. His mouth was a grim line of determination.
“I thought you’d gotten too fancy for any real work out East,” Paul responded, his mouth tipping up. “I’ve heard you’re even wearing loafers. A far cry from the days when you and I would face off across the center line on the football field.”
“What I would say to you if a lady weren’t present…” Arthur only responded. “Why don’t you let me round up some other volunteers from the camp? You have plenty to do.”
Paul clapped him on the back. “Fine. It’s good to have you back, Hale.”
“It’s good to be back,” he responded.
The man turned and ran back toward the mine.
“What about the story?” Harriet asked, totally confused. Journalists were supposed to stand on the sidelines, right? Observe? Analyze? Not get involved.
“There are twenty–one men down there fighting for their lives. The story can wait.”
He strode off toward the camp, his arms pumping with new vigor. Trailing in his wake, she realized she was more than a little in awe of him.
Even though he was younger than all the men in the camp, he found an apple crate someone had brought and stood on it in the center of the camp.
“Some of the surrounding rescue teams have been delayed by the blizzard last night. We need volunteers to help get the men out. Who’s with me?” He thrust his fist into the air.
There was no loud cheer, but his short and sweet speech was like a battlefield cry of old. Men moved toward him from all sides. He shook their hands. Slapped some on the back. Always looking into their eyes when he did.
Arthur was very good at inspiring people.
He met her gaze, and for a moment, the punch of that fiery blue stole her breath.
Then they set off, the old and even older, men whose sons and grandsons were buried alive. When Arthur reached the rope, he flung it aside, and they all approached the rubble–strewn opening to hell.
Paul gave them instructions, and then the men took the shovels they were given from a nearby truck and headed toward the mine.
No one wore a hard hat. They were just a band of men, willing to put their lives on the line for the men who were trapped below.
Arthur led the way, his natural leadership evident. Why hadn’t she seen the full power of his charisma until now?
His shovel penetrated the earth first as he put his back into it.
The men dug for four hours straight, slowly carving a path through the rubble. Harriet and some of the other women stood waiting with coffee at the rope line, which was now back in place.
Every now and then, the men would dash over to take a gulp. Then they’d head back, determination in every step. The small team of rescue workers continued digging for hours and hours. Lumber beams were hammered in place to fortify the makeshift entrance they’d dug and to prevent another cave–in.
Arthur found her on the few breaks he took, his face bathed in sweat despite the cold wind pushing around them, ruffling the surrounding pine trees. She would hand him some coffee and try to give him a smile of encouragement.
His mouth would tip up in response, but he didn’t say anything.
In those moments, neither of them needed to.
The other rescue teams finally trickled in by the truckload. The number of men digging grew. Inch by precious inch, the mess in front of the mine was finally cleared. Then they continued deeper into the tunnel, backs breaking, breaths like puffs of smoke as they speared the rubble and shoveled it aside.
When the sun went down, the temperature plummeted with it. Harriet’s hands were numb in her gloves, and her trembling wouldn’t stop. Darkness settled all around them, punctuated by a few lone cries of coyotes, and with it, the crushing fear that the rescue would come too late.
&
nbsp; They weren’t just fighting the cave–in. They were fighting the cold, and hypothermia was a danger now. She glanced at her watch for the hundredth time, counting the hours the men had been down there.
So long.
Too long.
How much longer would they last?
She and the women set up lanterns and torches all around the camp and brought the rest to the rescue workers, adding them to the ones that had already been set up on makeshift poles. The light cast an eerie glow on the bodies bending over and digging, their shadows being cast on the wall behind them. They looked bigger than they were. Like the Titans from Greek mythology, she thought, able to execute Herculean feats.
Like digging twenty–one men out of hell.
The men dug all night and past dawn, hands blistered and bleeding.
Someone cried out as the sun finally rose over the mountain’s ridge, which was dotted with a few deer out foraging for breakfast. Everyone in the camp stilled, waiting.
“We can hear them!” a man shouted, his words audible this time.
Women dissolved all around Harriet. As she rubbed one woman’s back, tears slid down her own face. Her knees felt weak with relief, and the exhaustion of staying awake all night finally settled in. Thank God.
She kept vigil with the women as the rescue workers picked up their efforts to dig through the remaining rubble separating them from the miners. One woman started reciting the rosary aloud, and more women joined her. Harriet wasn’t Catholic, but the continued repetition allowed her to memorize the prayer quickly. She began to chant with the other women as the men came for coffee or to devour a sandwich or an apple—anything that was handy.
Looking for Arthur’s lanky frame to emerge for coffee from the make–shift tunnel they’d dug became Harriet’s obsession. Her stomach quivered with fear when she couldn’t see him.
And for the first time she felt like she understood a fraction of what the other women were feeling for their men. Even if Arthur wasn’t her man.
At noon, they pulled the first man out. He stumbled out of the horrible hole, shivering, his face black and grooved, his eyes stark white in contrast.
“Martin!” a woman screamed and took off running.
The man limped toward her, and she lunged into his arms. He staggered back, but buried his face against her neck, and they stood there swaying in the wind, just holding each other.
Harriet felt a pinch in her heart. She wondered what it would be like to love a man like that and be so loved in return.
The woman next to her took her hand, and in that moment, she felt like she was one of them.
It took another hour to bring all the men out. And when the last couple reunited, his wife in his arms, his mother and father crying beside them, holding each other, she saw Arthur emerge from the mine.
He was filthy, but he shared a smile with Paul, his teeth a startling white against his dirt–smudged, unshaven face. They embraced and pounded each other on the back. As Arthur walked toward the rope line, he hugged the other men who had been digging with him. Shook hands with others.
And then he located her in the crowd, those blue eyes locking in on hers.
Her heart was suddenly as full and warm as a hot water bottle.
One of the men yanked the rope aside, and it fell to the ground on the muddy snow. She stepped over the line and made her way to Arthur. His eyes were blood–shot, filled with grit and exhaustion.
When she reached him, she latched her arms around him before she could think. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispered as his face rested on her shoulder, his body heavy with fatigue.
His arms came around her, and he pulled her against him. She ran her hand over his neck, pressing him even closer.
When he finally leaned back an inch, their arms still around each other, she tipped her head up and saw his gaze travel from her eyes to her mouth. Her fingers contracted on his skin, beckoning him, inviting him.
He finally took her lips, the dirt and sweat of him going unnoticed by her. Shifting her closer, he changed the angle of the kiss and took her even deeper, unleashing an unfamiliar sensation.
Primal desire.
Her heart rapped against his, and her nearly frozen body finally turned warm in his arms. Her lips opened when his tongue sought hers, and in that slow, yet impatient dance, she finally understood what lay between them.
He wanted her.
She wanted him.
The truth had been there since their first meeting.
Someone shouted his name and clapped him on the back, interrupting their kiss. His eyes bore into her, all flame and fire now, and then he turned to look behind him.
To shake the man’s hand, he had to let go of her with one arm, but he still held her close with the other. He simply introduced her as Harriet. Not as someone who worked for him, like he had before.
They talked with the other couples, other families. Everyone was celebrating the return of the miners, thanking the rescuers for their role in bringing them out. She stayed by Arthur’s side the whole time, his hand around her waist.
No one looked at her strangely or questioned why she was being held by a man who wasn’t her husband, a man she worked for, no less.
In this camp, with the relief running through it like a thread of gold in the mine wall, there were no questions about who she was or what she was to him.
When they finally made their way back to his car, and he had to let her go so she could get in, she realized everything between them had changed.
They drove in silence. He seemed too tired to talk, and she realized she probably should have offered to drive.
When he arrived at her house, he reached for her hand.
“We’ll have to talk,” he simply said.
“I know,” she replied, making herself release his hand and leave the car.
Chapter 10
Arthur slept for fourteen hours straight. When he awoke, every muscle in his body felt like it was bruised from the inside out, and his hands looked like he’d installed fence posts on his family’s ranch all day without gloves. As he located some liniment, he remembered dreaming about kissing Harriet. Sliding into her warm, wet mouth after he’d felt so cold for so long in that black hole had felt like coming home.
Leaving her at her doorstep with so much unsaid had been difficult but necessary. He needed—no, wanted—all his wits about him when they talked about what had happened.
After getting dressed, he decided he deserved another shave at the Barber Shop. He wanted the tactile comfort of having his face steamed with that rough, white towel. Dave was buzzing with talk about the cave–in and about Arthur’s role in the rescue. He just closed his eyes, not wanting to feed any talk about him being a hero. He had done what needed to be done. That was all there was to it.
The questions followed him when he popped into Kemstead’s Bakery for a treat of coffee and one of their award–winning homemade cinnamon rolls. He relayed the stories of the men who’d been trapped, shifting the conversation away from himself. Everyone agreed it was by the grace of God that no one had been critically injured.
When he finally made his way to his office, he spotted Harriet’s sedan on Main Street. Picking up his pace, he entered the building, only to see that she wasn’t alone. Herman Smith was leaning over her desk, his hands resting on his tool belt. He was flirting, Arthur realized with a pang.
It was as creepy as Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
“I’ll tell you, it was brave of you to go up there, Harriet,” Herman said. “If I hadn’t been out helping old Mrs. Henderson with her septic tank yesterday, I would have helped dig those men out.”
Since Herman weighed about one hundred and forty pounds, Arthur doubted he could have lifted much dirt. Then he caught himself. Why was he being so nasty all of the sudden? Because he was jealous, he realized. Creepy flirting or not.
Harriet caught sight of him and dropped her pen. “Good morning,” she said.
Her
man slapped him on the back, making him wince. “Heard about what you did from Patricia Depay. She said you were a regular hero.”
“I did what needed to be done,” he responded briskly. “Good morning, Harriet.”
She met his eyes, and then promptly lowered them. So she was feeling unsure this morning too. Well, then.
“Let me make you some coffee,” she announced, rising from her seat, looking tired yet lovely in a pale pink cashmere sweater set and navy skirt.
Her gesture surprised him. After all, she’d gone out of her way to tell him she would never make him any. She must be feeling the change between them too.
“No need. I just had some at Kemstead’s.”
“But I want to,” she said softly.
The sweetness moved through him. “Then I’d love some. Thank you.”
She gestured to the front page of The Denver Post. “When did you call this in?”
His article chronicling the whole event was featured in the upper right hand corner. “After I dropped you off.”
“But you were—”
“Exhausted, yes, but I had to tell the story.”
Her face fell, and he realized she was probably thinking about how he’d dropped her off and then come back here to hammer out the story.
Maybe she was worried his story was more important to him than their talk.
What she needed to understand was that he’d had the words for the story, but not for her. Not with the bone–crushing fatigue as heavy as an anvil on his chest.
“It took me five minutes to type it up and call it in,” he added. “I composed the article while I was digging.”
Her mouth changed into a small smile, one of her reserved ones. “It’s an incredible piece, Arthur.”
He nodded because he knew it was. He’d mentioned his involvement briefly, talking about what it had been like to dig next to men from his surrounding community, working against the clock to free the trapped men. How he’d felt when they heard the first shouts from the miners. How he’d almost gotten teary eyed seeing the first man stumble through the narrow hole they’d dug, face dark as pitch.
