Mining for Love (Mountain Men of Montana Book 2)

by Dana Alden

Where she came from, late September was a beautiful season. The trees turned glorious red, orange and yellow. Cool nights were balanced with warm afternoons. It was fall, but the best kind of fall.

  In Montana Territory, in the mountains, it was clear she was in for a long winter. The men were scrambling. Scrambling to work their mines as long as the water wasn’t frozen. Scrambling to stock up, before the wagon trains stopped bringing in supplies for the winter. Her chatty customers had told her numerous times about the rioting last year, when Virginia City had run out of flour.

  Anyone growing vegetables was harvesting or babying their gardens to eke out a little more growing time. Some men were telling stories about terrible storms. Some were talking about the card games and boredom to come. And some were hightailing it south while the roads were still passable.

  She had been wondering when her stove would arrive so J.B. could install it in her shack. But, now, she wondered instead if there was still time for her to hightail it with them. After yesterday, she didn’t know how she could continue to live alongside J.B. She had gone to him to tell him about Steven, how she’d feared he might not be dead, that she wasn’t a widow. Even with Mr. Cooper’s last siting of her husband, she wasn’t legally a widow. She’d wanted to come clean.

  But she’d been so surprised by J.B.’s talk of a ring. She knew he cared, but she didn’t expect him to be so forward so quickly. She didn’t know how to respond when he didn’t yet know her story, and she’d panicked. She realized that even if she told him, it wouldn’t change anything. She would still be left in limbo, unable to move forward. How could they live like that?

  Delia threw back her blanket and got out of bed. She shivered as she splashed water on her face, pressing the cold cloth around her eyes, hoping to reduce the puffiness that came from shedding so many tears during the night. She dressed in her work dress, put on her apron. These colder mornings meant it took even longer to heat the water for washing, so she liked to kindle the fire under the cauldron as early as possible. She smoothed her hair, drew her shawl around her shoulders, and opened the door.

  There, on the flat stone that was her stoop, lay a dead rabbit. It was a brownish-gray, with a few hints of white as its fur prepared for winter. It looked like it had been caught in a snare.

  She put her hands on the doorframe and stared down at it. Steven had brought her rabbits. He’d go out early, check his snares, and leave the rabbits on the door stoop, ready for her to skin them. She was flooded with memories. The first time, not long after they’d married, she’d mentioned how much she enjoyed rabbit stew. The next morning, he left a brace of rabbits on the stoop before he headed into the fields to work. She’d skinned them and made him a delicious stew. He’d declared it his favorite. She’d been so proud.

  It was before he’d turned so controlling. Before he decided it wasn’t his favorite, and insisted she change her recipe.

  But this rabbit. It hadn’t been processed or blooded. It looked like it was a few days old. It smelled. It was not a gift of love.

  Delia felt like she had after Jimmy’s legs had broken in the “accident.” She was a widow who couldn’t move on, unable to support herself, becoming fearful of the things going on around her. The subtle threats…and the not-so-subtle ones. In a moment of desperation, she’d gone to Cal’s parents, to ask advice on how to move west on her own. It was his father who had suggested she go as a bride for Cal.

  She looked at the rabbit, laying there on her stoop. It had to be from the same person who had taunted her in Missouri. Steven, or someone who had known him. Maybe a fellow soldier he’d spoken with. That other fellow here in Virginia City had heard about her from Steven, and even seen the miniature portrait he had brought to war.

  She knew it.

  She knew it.

  She knew it.

  And it made her angry.

  She was done being scared. She was done running away.

  Delia picked up the rabbit by the ears. It was past fresh. Not a proper gift. Not a nice gift.

  The bears were getting ready to hibernate and had started showing up around town. She had to get the smelly carcass out there. She reached down and picked a rock off the edge of her wall. She slipped it into her pocket. She’d figure out what to do as she walked.

  But first, she heard a scrabbling noise. Chatty’s dog was under her wash bench, sniffing and pawing. She walked over and reached down to scratch behind his ears. He leaned into her one hand, ignoring the rabbit in her other.

  “What good are you?” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  J.B. walked out behind his cabin to see Delia standing in the yard. She had her hands on her hips and was studying the yard. She wasn’t wearing her bonnet. Her hair, shiny and brown, framed her pretty face, which was wearing a frown.

  He wished he could have avoided her, but he hadn’t realized she’d returned from wherever she’d gone early this morning. He knocked on the side of the cabin. Delia gave a little jump and laid her hand on her chest.

  “Oh, J.B., you startled me!” Her face turned pale, except two flaming patches of red on her cheeks. He realized then that she hadn’t started her wash fire, that there was no laundry in progress.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said with an emphatic nod, the color returning to her face. Then, she switched to shake of her head. “Well, no.” She had her hands back on her hips.

  He liked seeing Delia with this fire in her eyes. It was better than the scared deer look she’d worn yesterday. But it didn’t make sense.

  “Care to explain?” he asked.

  “There was a dead rabbit on my stoop this morning.”

  A dead rabbit? “Did it look sick?”

  “No, it had been trapped and left there,” she said with gritted teeth.

  “One of your admirers?”

  “Not exactly.” She took a deep breath and J.B. felt as though he was about hear something momentous. And then, he did. “You are in danger. I might be, too.”

  “Care to explain?” he asked yet again.

  “I will, J.B. But when I’m done, you may not want me here. I’ll leave here, if you want, but not Virginia City. I’m not going to run again.”

  J.B. didn’t know whether he was in danger, or what was going on, but he was glad to see Delia was done feeling scared. He hated the circles under her eyes, her jumpiness, and knowing she was waiting for…something. He admired the calm determination in Delia’s countenance. This was no panicked response to a dead rabbit. She had a fire burning inside her that made her green eyes turn gray around the edges, like a storm cloud moving in.

  And she wasn’t hiding behind that damn bonnet.

  “Hang on,” J.B. said, “I’ll bring chairs out.” He reentered his cabin and grabbed the two chairs each by its rail. He placed them along the back wall of his cabin, where Delia and he could see the path to the creek but not be seen by someone walking by on the road in front.

  He gave a fancy bow and held his hands out, as if he was offering Delia a golden throne. The fire in her eyes calmed. He liked how her eyes creased when she was genuinely pleased, as if her cheeks had decided to move north.

  She sat in the chair farther from the path. He took the other chair. The sun shone on them, but it was surrounded by clouds and did little to warm the brisk morning air. Delia’s brown hair was shiny and smooth against her head. It was gathered at the base of her neck. J.B. imagined pulling the pins and seeing her hair falling into long tendrils.

  He realized Delia was watching him watch her.

  “No bonnet this morning,” he stated, hoping she wouldn’t realize what had really been on his mind.

  “No bonnet ever,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

  “Sooo,” he asked, “Does this mean we can stop pretending to dislike each other?”

  Delia gave him a rueful smile. “Yes. I’m sorry I’ve made everything so difficult. I’ll try to explain.” But th
en she paused, and so J.B. gave voice to the question he’d been wondering for a while. “Delia, did your husband really die in the War, or did you run away?” She wouldn’t be the first woman to escape a bad marriage by running away. He was determined to help her, but he wanted to know he was up against.

  Delia looked startled. “What? Oh. I –” Yet another deep breath. “I thought he was dead. I thought he was killed in battle. But his uncle didn’t want to admit it; he loved him too much.”

  “There was no body?” J.B. asked.

  “No body,” she agreed. She gave a shiver in the cool air. “And then someone started causing me trouble… trouble that was connected to Steven… trouble that caused an innocent boy to be injured. So, I came out here, to start over. I thought Cal would understand that I might not be a widow…that he wouldn’t care.”

  J.B. sat quietly, looking up at the gathering gray clouds.

  “And then Cal didn’t want to marry me. And I realized I couldn’t force that uncertainty on…anyone else.” She glanced at J.B. then. He stayed quiet.

  “Then this man, this fellow soldier, came by. He told me he was certain Steven was dead…but he hadn’t actually seen it so. Even so, I got hopeful again.”

  She reached over and put her hand on J.B.’s arm. “When you spoke yesterday, it scared me. I was getting a bit hopeful, but I realized that I still didn’t know. I didn’t know to admit it to you. And with trouble starting again, I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

  J.B. nodded. He didn’t move his arm. But he did ask, “So, you’re not holding a candle for your husband? Or Cal?”

  “What? No, not Steven. Not Cal.” Decisive. Emphatic.

  Excitement filled him and he wanted to jump up off the chair, but Delia twisted in her seat and gripped J.B.’s arm. “The thing is, this rabbit this morning. That’s Steven. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how he survived, or why he didn’t come home. But it’s him.” The fire returned to her eyes. “But I’m not going to live like this. I’m not.”

  J.B. put his hand on top of Delia’s hands, still locked around his forearm. He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I think you know how I feel about you, Delia.” He took a deep breath. “I can live with the uncertainty of your widowhood. But I’m not going to have you terrorized. I’m going to protect you.”

  Delia’s eyes were wide, inches from his. She gave him a tremulous smile.

  “Really, J.B?” she whispered.

  He didn’t know if she was asking about him protecting her, or how he felt about her widowhood, or how he felt about her, but it didn’t matter. The answer was the same.

  “Really,” he said. And then, right there in the yard, with no broad-brimmed hats or bonnets, where anyone could see them, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. And she kissed him back.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Watson,” a voice boomed. It was Chatty Dawson, dimpled cheeks shining over his newly-trimmed beard. He looked clean and crisp and a far cry from how he’d looked the last time she saw him. Even the handkerchief in his pocket lay flat and posed.

  “Chatty,” said Delia with a smile. She took the stick she was using to stir the tub of clothes and laid it aside. She put her hands on her aching back and said, “Good afternoon to you, too. You clean up nicely.”

  She laughed when Chatty held out his hands as though holding a skirt and gave a small curtsy, all the while batting his lashes and simpering like a debutante. “Oh, Chatty! You are a card.”

  Chatty straightened. “Don’t worry. I don’t have a second laundress. I bought these new duds from Reggie at the Mercantile. Nice fella. They’re just right, except a little along in the leg. Or, I’m a little short in the shank.”

  Delia laughed again. She turned to her shelf that J.B. had put up along the side of her cabin. She took the neat stack of clothes, tied together with twine, and carried it over to Chatty. He took the stack and at the same time presented her with a pretty green ribbon.

  “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Watson,” he said. Perhaps seeing the question in her eyes, he lowered his voice. “This here is for you to put in your hair show it off to your other admirers. I think at least one – J.B. for instance – might step up if he gets to thinking some other fella might sweep you away.”

  Delia felt the blood rushing to flame her face. “Oh, no. J.B. doesn’t—. I’m not—” She ran her fingers over the soft material.

  “Now, don’t tell me that, Mrs. Watson. It’s common knowledge you two are sweet on each other, but you’re both holding back.” Delia raised her head in astonishment. What? He couldn’t know what held her back, but common knowledge? And she thought she’d been protecting J.B. with her acting skills.

  Chatty stepped a little closer and lowered his voice a little more. “Take some advice from an old codger. It’s terrible losing your wife – or husband, in your case – but if you wait too long, it becomes harder and harder to move on. You don’t want to grow old alone.” His eyes unfocused as he looked into his long past. Then, he shook his head and looked at Delia again.

  Delia put her hand on Chatty’s wrist. “I’m sorry, Chatty.” She didn’t say sorry for your loss, for your wife’s death, or for being alone and lonely. She meant it all and knew he understood.

  “Over time,” he said, “you forget all the bad stuff—the arguments and struggles – and you only remember the good times.” His eyes took on a shine. He closed them and shook his head. When he opened them, he had that humorous twinkle back. He started waggling his brows. “And the lovin’. Can’t forget that!”

  He started laughing a big booming laugh. Delia leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Chatty stopped laughing and his rosy cheeks bloomed brighter. Delia stepped back and waggled her own eyebrows at Chatty. They both laughed. Chatty tipped his hat.

  Then, Chatty adjusted his bundle of clothes to carry more easily. Just before Delia turned back to her laundry, Chatty leaned over and whispered, “Save those kisses for J.B. I’m a little old for you. He’s ‘bout the right age.” He winked and headed out of the yard and down the lane.

  Delia shook her head. She was red-faced from laughing and embarrassment. She wondered if others really thought as Chatty did, that she and J.B. were sweet on each other. She lost her smile, wondering if anyone – if Steven – had seen her kiss J.B. the day before. She had jumped up immediately, told him they couldn’t do that again. Not until it was safe. She wasn’t going to hide behind the bonnet anymore, but she didn’t want to put J.B. in danger either. Two broken legs would ruin him.

  She wondered if kissing Chatty, which she’d done without thought, would take the sting out of her kiss with J.B. Maybe she should start kissing all her customers. How far did she need to go? She was going to end up working at Bertha’s at this rate.

  She realized she still held the ribbon in her hand. She needed to place it safely inside her cabin before she returned to work.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Hey, J.B.!”

  J.B. looked up to see Reggie waving him over to the store porch. J.B. trudged up the road, worn from a long day digging and rocking for gold. It had been fruitless today. His back ached. His hands ached. His ankles ached. And all for nothing. He knew it was there. He felt in his gut that it was close. But not yet.

  “If your face was any longer, you’d be a hound dog,” said Reg.

  “I feel about that good,” said J.B. He leaned against the porch post and dropped his rucksack. “Was there something you wanted or did you just miss my pretty face?”

  “Pretty to a blind man, yes,” said Reggie automatically, without humor. He then took a moment to look around, to make sure no one was close enough to overhear the two men. J.B. pushed away some of his exhaustion.

  “What?”

  “Chatty Dawson?”

  J.B. nodded. “I know him.”

  “Shot dead.”

  J.B.’s head recoiled. Chatty Dawson was a talkative fellow, hiring on for jobs whenever he could get them. He’d make enoug
h money to drink and gamble, lose it all, and have to start over. But he was an amiable man and no threat to anyone.

  J.B. grabbed his hat from his head and slapped it against his thigh. A cloud of dust arose. “What is wrong with this place?”

  Reggie didn’t answer. He gave the tiniest of shrugs. “Accused of cheating.”

  J.B. frowned at Reggie. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Reggie nodded. “A lot of men feel the same. But the shooter didn’t hang around to discuss it. He slipped out in the melee.”

  “That’s a damn shame.” J.B. shook his head, as though to shake away the terrible image. “Anyone we know?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Reggie. “It was a newcomer. But that’s why I wanted to make sure you knew. The fellow’s name might have been Wasser. Or Watson.”

  At that J.B. stilled. Watson?

  “I know Chatty liked to visit with your Mrs. Watson, and he brought her gifts a few times. I couldn’t help but wonder, after the troubles she’d had, if there could be a connection.” With Reggie’s law background, J.B. knew he ought to be concerned.

  “What did this Watson look like?”

  Reggie shook his head. “No one is quite sure. A little thick in the middle. He wore a hat.”

  J.B. looked out at the men walking and riding the road in front of Reggie’s store. So many men showing up every day. No way to track them. No way to find a needle in the haystack when he didn’t even have a description of the needle.

  His brain was churning like a water wheel and he forgot about his exhaustion.

  “Thanks, Reggie. Let me know if you hear anything else. I better get back to Delia.”

  Reggie nodded. J.B. picked up his rucksack and threw it over his shoulder as he stepped off the porch.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Delia looked up to see J.B. striding toward her. She began to smile until she noticed his grim expression. She put down the iron and stepped away from the shirt she’d been working on.