Cold Gold (6 page)

Even though she had been so angry with him, Serena couldn’t imagine her life without Randolph. But, if he didn’t return, how would she bear losing the prospect of having both husband and child?

Chapter Six

Randolph slowly opened his eyes, then held his breath. He could see nothing. A blackness so intense, so impenetrable enveloped him as surely as a velvet cloak. Puzzled, he closed his eyes.

This couldn’t be right. He opened his eyes again but still could see nothing, could hear nothing.

Aware only of a cool, hard floor beneath his cheek he moved, and instantly regretted it. Pain speared every nerve in his body. Dazzling shafts of light exploded behind his eyes. Bile rose in the back of his throat. Gently sliding his fingers across the back of his head, he discovered a bump the size of a goose egg. When he pulled his wet, sticky, fingers away from the wound the coppery smell of his own blood rose to his nostrils.

If moving made him feel this bad, his best option could only be to stay still. Pillowing his head on his arm, he willed his body to relax. He closed his eyes and waited for the nausea that cramped his stomach to subside. He felt as weak as a kitten and had no idea how long he’d been in this hell hole. Resting a while longer would be of no consequence for, whoever attacked him and dumped him here, obviously did not intend for him to wake up.

Ever.

When he came round again, he carefully pushed himself into a sitting position. Each movement resulted in more pain, not just in his head but his whole body. Bruises on his back and legs screamed at him and he could only imagine the kaleidoscope of colours his skin must be.

The thump of his heart beat in his ears. Breath sawed in and out of his lungs. As carefully as he could, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees and began to crawl around the floor, feeling his way with his fingers.

He found
the juncture with the wall and used it for support as he slowly got up. Once he was upright, he reached up into the darkness above his head. Though over six feet tall, he still could not feel the ceiling. The uneven surface beneath his hands created images in his mind as he felt the sharp edges and flat planes where tools had struck the rock face. He knew he was underground, most likely in some forgotten mine shaft.

“Well, if you’re going to hide a body,” he muttered, “this would be just about the best place for it.”

A stout door revealed itself to his searching hands. There was no handle or hinges and it must have been constructed to open from the outside. The upper half of the door was fitted with metal bars. He thrust his hand between them into emptiness beyond and then felt a slight draft on his skin.

Putting his face against the bars, he inhaled clean, fresh air. If air flowed in, then there must be a way out. No doubt about it.
But how to get out of this hole? Could there be anything in here that he could use to free himself? Holding his arms in front him in the hopes of coming into contact with something, anything, he shuffled around the floor. As his toes hit debris, he carefully lowered himself and ran his hands over the items to identify what he had found.

A box containing paper, but no matches or candle. A jacket. He felt for the pockets. Nothing in them. A canvas bag, also empty. A piece of rope, frayed at the end as if it had pulled apart.
He continued to shuffle around, until his foot hit something metal. He dropped down again, searching the ground close to his foot until his hand closed on the wooden shaft of a shovel.

His lips twisted into a
grim smile of satisfaction. He could use this. Rough under his fingers, the blade might be strong enough to pry apart the bars on the door. He fed the blade between two of the bars and heaved on the handle.

With a sharp crack the
wooden shaft broke. The blade spun off into the darkness and landed with a metallic clatter on the floor beyond the door.

“Son of
a bitch!” he yelled as he landed hard on the floor. Pain shot up his back and set his head pounding again but he ignored it as best he could and struggled to his feet.

The
broken handle remained in his hand and he drew it across the bars. The loud rattle it made echoed along the tunnel then dwindled to silence. Just how far did sound travel underground, anyway?

He started yelling and continued until his throat felt raw and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. He stopped, mocked by the ghost of an echo, turned his back against the door and slid down it. He pulled his knees up and rested his head on them, waited for his breathing to steady, for his blood to stop pounding, for his head to stop spinning.

Soft, shuffling footsteps crept into his consciousness before he realized what he heard. As they came closer he knew that if he could see, he’d be seeing double, for his head still spun as he sat there.

The soft glow of lantern light slowly
spilled through the bars and played across the walls of his prison.

Randolph stood up, shielded his eyes against the sudden
glare.

“You there!” he called. “Get me out of here.”

The light played across the round face of a Chinese man who peered up at him. Randolph heard the scrape of a bolt in its keeper, then the door opened.

He
stumbled through it and promptly passed out.

~*~*~*~

“Ouch, that hurt.”

“Keep still, Mr. Randolph. Head hurt more if I not treat properly.”

Randolph sat on the edge of a rough hewn timber cot. He gritted his teeth while the old Chinaman washed then treated his wound with a foul-smelling ointment.

“This good stuff. Stink make it work better.” The Chinaman placed a dressing over the wound before winding a bandage carefully around Randolph’s head. When he finished
, he wiped his hands on a cloth and picked up the lantern.

“I’ll take your word for it, John
Woo.” Randolph wrinkled his nose at the noxious mixture.

John Woo held the lantern close to Randolph’s face and peered into his eyes.

“How many finger?” he asked, holding up his hand.

“Three.
” Randolph winced at the flickering light.

“Hm. Good. Now stick out tongue.” Randolph did as he was told and John
Woo scraped a curved gold tool across it. He held the tool close to the lantern so he could inspect the filmy white results he collected. “That good, much better. You nearly well, Mr. Randolph. One, two more days maybe, then you go.”

Randolph thanked him. If not for John’s care, he would probably still be very much the worse for wear
, if not dead.

“So what’s going on outside
, John? Have the sheriff and King given up looking for me?”

“I think so. Good
you here, where no can see. Mr. King, he not worry anyway. You right ‘bout him. Sheriff, him good man. He listen much, say to let him know what you need. It good you decide to be dead.”

Randolph chuckled. “Thanks for keeping Johnson informed, John.
Have there been any problems with you coming and going? Anyone ask questions of you at the mine head?”

John
Woo grinned a toothless smile. “Me just old Chinky man going to work in mine. When I leave work gang, I say go to feed dragon. They think I go to piss in private place.”

Randolph
nodded. “One day, John, I’ll be able to thank you properly. Now, what have you brought me to eat today?”

“You like Chinee
’ dumplings? Sweet ‘n sour chick’n?”

Randol
ph’s laugh echoed in his chest.

“It’s almost worth getting hit on the head for this.” He opened the basket that John
Woo handed him and sniffed the still warm food appreciatively. “Your wife makes the best steamed rice and sticky buns, John.”

John collected up the empty basket from the previous day and the bucket of night waste. He put another bucket down in its place.

“If you light lantern, listen well first before strike match,” he warned before he left the room.

“I will,” Randolph promised.

The light from John Woo’s lantern faded until Randolph was in complete and utter darkness again. He continued to sit on the edge of the cot, wondering not for the first time how John Woo had managed to drag it down here. He steadied his breath, calmed his thoughts, fought the fear of being alone in the dark.

He could do this. H
e must do it. He reached out, found the basket of food and started to eat. It was tasty and filling but he left some of it for later. John Woo could only come once a day, and sometimes not at all.

Randolph put the basket on the floor at the head of the cot and lay down on his side. The cot’s leather strapping dug into his shoulder and hip
. He shifted about until he was reasonably comfortable. Although his skin had healed, he still had a lump at the base of his skull. It prevented him from lying on his back, but didn’t prevent the thoughts that chased each other around in his brain.

One company name Randolph did not recognize in the report from the Cold Creek Mine was all it took to set in motion a series of questions. Questions that could not be answered from his office at Buxton Hall. Wiring the Pinkerton Agency to begin enquiries into the Caster and Lennox Mining Corporation before he arrived in San Francisco almost immediately threw up another query, and then another. By the time Randolph met up with Agent
Stuart Montgomery, one name emerged from the paper trail of cover companies and that name was Douglas King.

Montgomery
had warned him to watch his back at all times, but neither of them had considered the possibility of someone using the cupboard in his office as a hiding place. Whoever hit him with enough force to almost split his skull had waited in there and attacked him. From sitting at his desk at the mine head office until waking up on the floor of this hell hole, he had no memories at all.

Deep in thought, Randolph ran his fingers through his beard. He had only ever once worn
one and guessed from the length of it he must have been here now for at least ten days. And was fully aware of the reason for it.

He’d asked one question too many and gotten too close to the truth.

He shifted on the cot and sighed heavily. His father’s overseas gold interests had cost him dearly one way or another. Mostly they had taken him away from Buxton Hall and Serena. He thought of the last time he’d seen her, with her eyes blazing and her cheeks red with anger, her voice ringing with accusation.

“I don’t think you love me,” she’d said
. He’d watched as her lower lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. “I think you’re using Cold Creek as an excuse to run away from what is or is not between us.”

Running his hand over his face, he
sat up. He couldn’t tell her what he suspected was happening at the mine, couldn’t hint at how dangerous it might be. She would have insisted on coming with him and how much of a liability would that have been? If his own safety was questionable, how could he guarantee hers? He hadn’t wanted to argue with her and had simply left.

He got up and paced the floor, comfortable now in the parameters of his underground prison
. It suited his purpose better to stay dead. It would lull the perpetrators into a false sense of security. Restless and ready to leave, he respected John Woo’s concern for him and tried to be patient. One or two more days wouldn’t hurt in the scheme of things and would give him time to plan a strategy to unmask Douglas King and possibly George Stiles with him.

And then he would sell his holdings in the
Cold Creek mine and go home to Buxton Hall and Serena.

Serena. He couldn’t shut out the sight of her lovely face and graceful
form, the high firm breasts he loved to caress, the delight they both took in her response. He wanted nothing more than to hold her again, to feel the warmth of her body against his, a warmth that meant so much more to him than any of the cold gold this mine might produce. Their argument before he left had been vicious and it cut him to the core that she thought he didn’t love her. He sat back down on the edge of the cot and held his head in his hands.

He
had started to tell her so many times why he couldn’t love her as completely as she wanted, wouldn’t give her the child she yearned for but, each time he tried, the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t explain to her how his mother cried and shrieked in pain while giving birth to his brother.

No, he would
never put Serena through that.

Chapter
Seven

Douglas King tipped his chair back and put his heels on the edge of Randolph Buxton’s desk. He took a cigarillo from his pocket, lit it then watched the first satisfying curl of smoke spiral upwards. Oh, but this was good.

Very good.

He’d learned a long time ago that patience was a virtue and now all his pigeons were coming home to roost. There was only one pigeon left to deal with and how fortunate that she came to him. Her being so far away from home made everything so much easier.