by Dana Alden
“J.B.?”
As soon as he reached her, he grabbed Delia’s hands in his. “Any trouble today?”
Delia was startled by J.B.’s open show of concern. They had been slowly, sweetly, revealing their feelings, but not that anyone else could see. Not after that kiss.
She shook her head. She could see he was tense, but somehow, she was having trouble taking her focus away from his warm, callused hands wrapped around hers. She wondered how he could be thinking of anything else.
And then her ears finally heard what he was saying.
“Chatty? Dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” J.B. said.
Delia could only picture the sweet, sloppy man who would come by to drop off an armload of laundry and stay for an hour telling her stories about his week. He had a way of pursing his lips and crinkling in his eyes which always tipped her off that his stories were about to become tall tales. He was a kind man. Was.
J.B. gave her hands a squeeze. “The thing is, Delia, he was shot by a fellow that accused him of cheating. Someone named Wassner. Or Watson.”
She knew immediately what J.B. was saying. Her greatest fear, that her husband was still alive and haunting her, rose up inside her like a wriggling snake. She didn’t know how he could be when he’d been seen to be fatally injured. She didn’t know why he wouldn’t have just come home or come to her here in Virginia City if he was alive. She didn’t know anything except history seemed to be repeating itself. Someone who was kind and sweet to her was a victim under suspicious circumstances. But this time, it was the victim wasn’t injured. He was dead. Chatty was dead.
Delia jerked backward, ripping her hands out of J.B.’s. She stumbled back, trying to put distance between them. She felt her breath quickening. It was too late. She had held hands with J.B. openly. She had kissed him. She grabbed her apron, wringing it in her hands, trying to squeeze away the terror.
J.B. stepped toward her. “Don’t worry. I won’ t let anything happen to you.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not me I’m concerned about. It’s you.” A loud sob escaped. “It’s you.”
J.B. tried to touch her shoulder but she whirled away. “Yesterday, Chatty brought me a ribbon. And I kissed him on the cheek. If he hadn’t – If I hadn’t—” she broke off. “Don’t touch me!”
She saw the disappointment on J.B.’s face, that she wouldn’t let him comfort her. And the resolve, his determination to help her. Which was the worst thing she could think of.
She ran into her cabin and closed the door.
She looked around the one room, at the table and the bunk she slept on. Up until recently, this little space had been her refuge. Smaller than her old home, but bigger in freedom. And lying there at night, knowing J.B. was so close by, had given her a sense of security she hadn’t felt in years. Surrounded by thousands of people, mostly men, mostly strangers, but safe in her own little nest. That sense of security had been fading with the small vandalisms and invasions, but now it was gone. She knew that every night she would strain her ears, listening for Steven coming for J.B.
And that would never be enough. J.B. might be alone at his mine, or just walking down the street, and a surprise attack could do him in. He would never be safe with her.
Delia’s heart squeezed until it shattered.
She loved J.B. She loved him with a passion she never thought possible. She couldn’t even call it complete, because the love felt never-ending. There were no boundaries to it. No end. It washed over her and through her and out into the world. Over the mountains and up to the sky.
She sank to her knees, onto the braided rag rug covering the dirt floor, and pushed her fists into her eyes. No tears, she willed. No tears, for those, too, would be never-ending.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The sound of the dirt falling onto the coffin made J.B. flinch. There was something about that first shovelful – it echoed on the wood. The men kept shoveling dirt into the hole, until the sound was muffled, dirt on dirt, and the only other sound was the panting breaths of Chatty’s friends. It didn’t feel quite right to J.B., burying Chatty in Boot Hill Cemetery just down from the road agents buried there. It seemed wrong to bury a good man like Chatty next to criminals like that. He shivered, noting the snowflakes starting to fall from the gray clouds.
One of the men called out, “Anyone here good at carving?”
J.B. hesitated, but no one else responded. “I’m not the finest woodworker, but I can do it.”
The man nodded. “I’ve got a nice piece of oak, part of a wagon I’m dismantling. I’ll drop it by your place.” J.B. took a moment to get the details on Chatty’s birth year and true name for the grave marker he would carve. And then he walked off alone.
Delia had already left to walk down the hill with Big Bertha. She’d refused to walk with him. He was concerned for her safety, but she was concerned for his. She was certain Chatty was dead because of her. J.B. was worried about this but couldn’t be entirely sure. Chatty had been a likeable fellow, and there were no indications he was a card cheat, but then, J.B. had only known him to say hello. He’d never played cards with him. He didn’t really know him. He didn’t really know what had caused someone to shoot him. But, given all that had happened, it was suspicious.
J.B. left the cemetery and headed down the hill, back into town. He was at a loss. He’d do anything to protect Delia. He stopped.
He’d do anything to protect Delia.
He had known that he cared about Delia. His feelings for her had been growing since he met her. He had thought she would make a fine bride and wife. But this protective/possessive/all-encompassing emotion he felt for Delia was like nothing he’d ever felt before. He wanted her. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to be with her and love her.
He loved her. He loved her with all of his being. J.B. took off at a fast clip. He wanted to shout his love to the world. And he was going to do just that. He was going to draw out Steven and end this.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Delia sat on the edge of her bunk with her purse on her lap. She counted all her coins and bills. It was enough to get a stage out of town, down to Utah, surely. Could she make it all the way to California? Or perhaps Seattle? If she left before the snows hit… She’d have to check the stagecoach schedule.
But it wasn’t enough to start over. She hefted her small poke bag of gold nuggets and dust. Most men paid for their laundry services in gold and she had what she collected from the wash water. She wasn’t sure how much it was worth. Enough, she hoped, to help her set up. She needed to visit the Assayer’s office. She needed not to get robbed on her way south.
Would there be such a need for a laundress outside a mining town? Perhaps she should aim for another one.
Delia then turned to the knife. It was small and sharp, with a pearl handle. Bertha had given it to her. After Chatty’s funeral, they had spoken at length. Delia had told Bertha everything. The woman had told her she’d have Kit stop by once a day.
“You send a message if need be,” Big Bertha had said.
Delia hesitated. She thought of Jimmy and his broken legs. Bertha had seen her indecision and pressed the small knife into her hand.
“I’ve got one already,” Delia had told her, patting her pocket.
“Good,” said Bertha, “Now you have two. They never expect that from a woman.”
And that was why Delia was sitting here, wondering. What did Steven expect from her? If he wouldn’t come out in the open, how long did he think this cat and mouse game could go on? She could run away, hoping to protect J.B. But she didn’t want to leave J.B.
Bang. Bang. “Mrs. Watson! Mrs. Watson!” It was young Kit, banging on her door.
Delia jumped up. She threw a blanket over her savings and then unbarred the door. “What is it, Kit?”
The boy was gasping for breath. “Big Bertha sent me. I ran all the way! Mr. Wood is going all over town, telling everyone and anyone that he’s gonna marry you. He’s g
oin’ to his claim to dig up some gold to make you a big ring, he said.”
Delia’s hand rose to her lips. She pressed them, as though grounding herself in reality. “This is…this is not good.”
Kit, whose breath was returning to normal, cocked his head. “You don’t want to marry him?”
She didn’t answer. She ran back inside, grabbed the knife Big Bertha had given her and slipped it into her pocket. She looked around for another weapon. Since she’d be noticed carrying a big pan in her hands, she instead took a sock filled with soap slivers and put that in another pocket. If she swung the soak at someone’s head it would be quite an impact. She grabbed her shawl and ran back out the door, slamming it behind her.
“Thank you, Kit!” she yelled as she hightailed it out of the yard. She walked briskly. Boy, was she going to have a word with J.B! He couldn’t just decide to antagonize Steven. Did he think it was as simple as that? Steven would just walk up to them and say, “Hey now, I’m her husband.” She balled her fists as she walked. She rushed down the boardwalk, men tipping their hats as she passed. She ignored them all.
As Delia reached the edge of town, she realized she had been following the same route as a man. As the crowds thinned out, she realized the blue shirt and beat-up brown hat had been in front of her for two blocks. The man was walking furtively, glancing around often. He paused and turned to look down an alley, revealing his profile. It was Freddy. She slowed down, not wanting to interact with him. But she kept going, because it was the same direction.
Delia hesitated. She needed to get to J.B. Get to J.B. Freddy started off again, and he was headed in the direction of J.B.’s claim. Was Freddy their troublemaker? Delia held back, following at a distance. Was he headed for J.B.? Was J.B.’s plan this immediately effective? Questions swirled in Delia’s head. She had been sure it was Steven…had she been so wrong?
She stopped again and looked around. There, leaning against the false front of a bar, was Michael Flaherty. He looked like he had been in conversation with the man next to him, but he had stopped and was looking right at her. He pushed away from the wall and walked toward Delia when she called out to him.
“Mr. Flaherty! Michael!”
“Mrs. Watson? You look riled up,” he said.
“I need your help, please,” she said hurriedly. She looked over his shoulder, trying not to lose sight of Freddy in the distance. “J.B. has done something foolish.”
Michael gave her a wry smile. “That won’t be the first time.”
“I’m serious! He’s trying to draw out the man who has been stalking me. And I think he’s succeeded.”
Michael stilled. “Is that so?”
“I need you to…to get Reg Smith, at the Merc. Bring him with you to J.B.’s claim. I think Freddy is headed to J.B. right now.” She craned her neck, trying to spot Freddy in the distance. She’d lost sight of him. She glanced back at Michael Flaherty. His usual smile was missing. He was staring at her intently, assessing. Well, she didn’t have time to explain. “Please hurry!”
Without waiting for a response, she took off down the dusty road, running until she saw Freddy again. She’d have to hope Michael and Reg showed up in time.
Delia tried to stay at a distance, so that Freddy wouldn’t notice her. She had hoped she might be wrong, but then he turned onto the trail that led toward J.B.’s mine. She glanced back, but there was no sign of Michael and Reg following yet. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want Freddy to sneak up on J.B. She lifted her skirts and jogged after Freddy.
Ahead, the trail split. Her last bit of hope rested on whether Freddy took the branch toward J.B. or the other that led in a different direction. She peered around a rock and saw Freddy had chosen neither. He was standing there. Waiting. He looked around, mostly in the direction of that other trail. Then, in the trees beyond him, she saw a movement. Freddy saw it too and walked into the shadows.
He was speaking with a man, pointing up the hill in J.B.’s direction. She couldn’t see the other man well. He wore a hat and stood in the shadows. But there was something about him…something that seemed familiar. She watched as the man gripped Freddy’s shoulder. Shook it. Whatever he was saying, Freddy nodded.
The two men turned and emerged from the shadows. With his broad-rimmed hat, she still couldn’t see the identity of the second man. He was dressed like a miner, but cleaner. He hadn’t been digging or panning in that outfit. The two men returned to the trail…heading toward J.B. Delia’s heart stilled. The way that man walked…her heart started racing.
She glanced back, but still no sign of the cavalry. She wished she had time to run back for help. But she feared it was too late for that.
She waited until the men disappeared over the crest of the trail and then hightailed it after them. She yanked her skirt when it snagged a sagebrush and heard it rip. She tripped over a rock and stumbled. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. She slowed at the crest, not wanting to rush into full view of the men. She approached a bluff, trying to peer around the edge carefully. She saw Freddy, standing in the middle of the trail, with his hands in his pockets. Where was the other man?
She felt the press of cold metal against her neck.
Chapter Thirty-Four
J.B. sat on a cut log, using it as a stool. He leaned over his rocker box, running his fingers through the ore, looking for gold. He was waiting. There was a hum in his head, a feeling of anticipation. It reminded him of the calm before a battle. The men knew the enemy was near and it was only a matter of time before the fighting began.
He remembered his first battle. He’d felt this same hum, just before the air around the soldiers had begun whistling the sound of mortar shells. The Union Army had shown up with dozens of rifled cannons and rained down shells on the Confederate men.
J.B. pulled himself out of his memory. He was staring at his rocks, but not paying any attention. He’d set a trap but wasn’t looking for his prey. He sat still and listened carefully. He heard nothing – a stillness that was unnatural. He slowly began to rise, sliding his hand toward his gun. Before he could reach it, Freddy appeared on the trail, already aiming a gun at J.B.
Damn, thought J.B., one moment of distraction and they got the drop on me.
“I wouldn’t do that, J.B.” Freddy smiled an unfriendly smile. “Yeah, I know your name. I know lots about you. Like, you’re sweet on this girl.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and around the bend came Delia. She was pale under her tan, wringing her hands as she walked. An older man had a gun trained at her back, prompting her up the trail. He was the stout fellow that J.B. had seen outside the yard with Freddy that one time.
They stopped just outside J.B.’s work area. The older man stepped up next to Delia. He grabbed her upper arm with one hand while the other continued to aim the gun at her.
J.B. looked at Delia. “Alright there?”
She gave a brief nod, her eyes sliding sideways toward the man beside her. He didn’t say a word but maintained his proprietary grip. J.B. leaned toward them but before he could do anything, Freddy cocked his gun and said, “You can stay right there, J.B., but toss your gun over here.”
Once he had the gun, Freddy relaxed. He stood midway between Delia and J.B. “Well, now, it’s time to settle up.” He pointed his gun toward the mine pit. “I know you have a big ol’ chunk of gold you’ve been excavating. Trying to hide it in a slag pile. But I’ve been sleuthing.”
J.B. felt his jaw drop. He’d been sure that his hiding place was a secret. He’d been unable to secure the site. He was kicking himself.
“And if I get this for you, you’ll let Delia go?”
“What!?” Freddy laughed. “No, no! This gold is my payment – for services rendered. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Watson about pretty Ms. Delia.”
J.B.’s head snapped to the man beside Delia. “Steven Watson?”
Delia gave the slightest shake of her head. “No. Steven’s uncle.”
The man’s lips stretched into a s
low, menacing smile. “Gold first,” he said.
J.B. was almost glad to start dragging the debris away from the hole. His mind was racing and he needed time to think. Uncle Geoffrey. He thought back over the stories Delia had told him about Steven and realized how many of them also featured Steven’s uncle. Was this really just about gold? Freddy had said it was his payment. So, what was Geoffrey’s?
He strained to lift a large rock out of the hole, dropping to the ground, to the hole. He grabbed his shovel. Freddy still had a gun trained on him and Geoffrey still had a gun trained on Delia. He stuck the shovel in the dirt and began excavating. He tried to draw it out.
“No lollygagging there,” said Freddy.
J.B. looked up at him, and then to Geoff. “Steven. Is he with you? Is he alive?”
Geoff gave that slow, creepy smile again, the kind a snake would make if a snake could smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
J.B. stopped shoveling. “Well, yes.”
Freddy looked back and forth between them. “Who’s Steven?”
Geoff pointed to the hole. “Keep working.” J.B. shuffled his shovel around but couldn’t take his eyes off the scene in front of him. Geoff turned to Delia, one hand pointing his gun into her side, the other tucking loose hairs behind her ear. “Steven was my nephew. And he was Delia’s husband.”
“Was?” J.B. asked forcefully, wanting to distract Geoff, hating his touching Delia. She was leaning away from him, trying to get out of reach of his fingers.
Geoff answered him, but he never took his eyes, or his hand off Delia. “Was, I’m sure. He would have come home to us.”
Delia was looking sideways at Geoffrey, alarmed by the way he said “us.” The way he drew it out, lovingly. J.B. started to step out of the hole, but he heard the cocking of a gun. It was Freddy’s. “Don’t.”
Geoff’s hand drifted down Delia’s neck, to her collar. He gently straightened it. “He’s gone, but we have each other. I know it’s hard to learn you’re a widow, but now you can move on. I’ll take care of you. You’ll learn to love me.”
