Heiress (28 page)

“You’ve heard D.L. Moody?”

“As a child. He came to our town.” Oh, keep it up and she’d give it all away.

“I read his sermons, sometimes. ‘If we are full of pride and conceit and ambition and self-seeking and pleasure and the world, there is no room for the Spirit of God. It’s better to be poor in spirit than be rich in self.’”

She stared at him, seeing Bette, hearing her own voice in prayer. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass.

There was a time when she’d trusted God with her future, her hopes. Her heart. He had hardly been trustworthy, had He? She’d lost Oliver. And God didn’t stop her from running to the far West, hiding in some muddy mining town, trying to eke out a living. She’d run too far—all the way across the country—for God’s blessings to find her.

She shivered.

“You’re cold. We need to get back. All this riding isn’t good for your ankle.”

She didn’t protest, his words, however, heating her through.
I know who
I am, know who I’m supposed to be.

After seven years, she longed to know too. Perhaps it was time to stop hiding. To return, like Daughtry had, to repair her mistakes.

To reclaim the blessing—the birthright—she left behind.

She imagined walking into her father’s
Chronicle
office, his back to her as she entered. Would he turn and smile? Open his arms to her?

From her mother she expected no rejoicing, but perhaps Jinx would kill the fatted calf. They’d been sisters, hadn’t they?

“You’re very quiet.”

“I’m thinking about your buffalo. Nearly extinct. But they’re such resilient creatures.”

“The hunters simply ran them over a cliff. They had nowhere else to turn and fell to their deaths. If only they’d stopped running—I imagine more might have survived. They’re buffalo, after all.”

The house came into view, lovely and white against the red barn. They rode into the barn, and he dismounted then moved over to help her.

She looked down at him, those dark eyes that suddenly seemed to possess the ability to look clear through her, and made her catch her breath.

“I can help myself.”

“I know you can,” he said, his hand on Dixie’s shoulder. “But if you would permit me, I’d like to assist you.”

Oh, she shouldn’t say yes. She’d spent seven years shrugging off help.

She put her hand on his shoulder, allowed him to catch her as she dismounted, to steady her as she put weight on her ankle. He had strong hands, and his smell—fresh air, leather, the scent of a man—lifted off him.

Perhaps being needy wasn’t such a terrible condition after all. Still, “I need to go back to town, Daughtry.”

He nodded. “Of course you do.”

An hour later, she stood on the porch before the gleaming gentleman’s brougham, with its shiny black exterior, glass windows, the berry-red wheels. “I can’t ride back into town in this. Every miner from the Silverthread will see me and—”

“And?” Daughtry came around the back of the carriage where he’d just tied Dixie for their trip into town. “They’ll know you were with me?”

She clipped off her words. But, yes. However, she couldn’t exactly mention the miners’ union meeting, could she? What if Daughtry thought she was conspiring against him, searching him for information? She made a face, not sure what to say.

“I understand,” he said softly.

She hated herself, then, just a little, but she couldn’t align herself with him and keep her footing with Abel.

From behind her, two of his laborers emerged with a trunk, setting it on the back of the carriage. They secured it into place.

“What is that?”

“Your things.” Daughtry said, a funny frown on his face.

“I have no things,” she said. “I came here with nothing.”

“Yes, but my father insists that you take the dresses you wore. They’re beautiful on you, they fit you well, and we have no need for them.”

But, “What of your future wife? Wouldn’t she appreciate them?”

The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to gulp them back for the look he gave her. “I hope so,” he said, drawing in a breath.

Oh. She pressed a hand to her face, suddenly feeling like a deb who’d been asked to dance. Oh.

Daughtry too, seemed suddenly shaken by his own words. He cleared his throat. Looked at the ground, back to Esme. “You intrigue me. Esme. I’ve very much enjoyed your presence here. It’s like the house was alive again. Your laughter at dinner and your keen conversation. I’ve never met a woman who was at once so feminine and yet so capable. I…” He blew out a breath. “I don’t suppose you would agree to allow me to call on you.”

She had drifted back to New York, half expected her mother to be standing in the shadows, watching. If she were a debutante, she would see a game behind his request—something that measured her family’s finances, their legacy in this request. But with Daughtry, she sensed nothing of guile. Indeed, she had met a gentleman.

One who just might cause her to lose everything she’d worked for. He didn’t want to live here. He wanted to sell the mine and return to New York.

She couldn’t go back to that world. Not yet. “I—I don’t think that is a good idea.”

He winced, and the expression tore through her. For a brilliant second, she wanted to take back her words, to tell him that yes, she wanted to know him better, to see if she could belong in this world, again. To even slide into his arms, to press her lips against his.

To be held.

But that wasn’t the woman she’d become.

“Thank you for doctoring my ankle.”

He stepped back, trying to hide his wounds. “You’re welcome.”

“And I can’t take the dresses, I’m so sorry.”

Another wound.

“If you insist. But I will leave them trunked for you in case you change your mind.”

No. She was done with that world.

At least until she figured out how to go home.

He untied Dixie, and she allowed him to help her into the saddle. “Thank you for the interview.”

“Was that what this was?” He patted Dixie’s shoulder, not meeting her eyes.

She turned Dixie and didn’t look back.

* * * * *

Maybe she could go home. Esme sat at her desk in the chilly office of the
Times
, looking over the articles Ruby, as well as the few other stringers she regularly used, had submitted over the few days she’d been holed up at Daughtry’s.

What if she let him into her life, to court her?

She could too easily fall in love with Daughtry—the way he cared for her, let her into his dreams. She’d so easily slipped back into the world she left behind, she wondered just how much she’d really despised it. More than that, he wasn’t a man thirsty for wealth, for a name, for power.

He wasn’t Foster Worth.

But she couldn’t return to New York as Esme Hoyt. No, she wanted to march into the
Chronicle
offices under her own byline, holding an article that even her father would run, front page, above the fold.

Like an interview with President Roosevelt. The idea had taken root, settled deep as she rode back to town. Sure, she might be able to scoop the
Butte Press
on a possible strike, but an interview with Roosevelt would not only scoop the
Press
but would be picked up and reprinted across America.

Even in her father’s
Chronicle.

“Where have you been?” Ruby banged into her office, wearing a split skirt, a tan shirtwaist, a long duster. Her black hair she’d tied back, low at her neck. “I was about to ride out to the Hoyt’s place to look for you. You had Hud nearly out of his mind.”

“Sorry. I turned my ankle again when I visited Daughtry. I wasn’t fit to ride back until today.”

“Umhmm.” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Did you get your interview?”

“Did you know him when he attended the Silver City School?”

Ruby made a face. “Some of the boys weren’t real nice to him. Orrin took up for him.”

“He said that. Orrin’s death really took him apart.”

Ruby considered her a long moment. “You fancy him.”

Esme looked up at her. Ruby smiled. “Don’t even try and lie. You’re a terrible liar.”

Actually…

Ruby shook her head. “He lives in a different world than we do, Esme. He has servants and a fancy life in New York City. He’s going to sell the mine to Anaconda and leave as soon as he can.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Abel. He was talking to Dustin this weekend, said that if he does, then we would join the Butte Miners Union.”

“We?”

Ruby smiled. “Dustin and I are getting married.”

“Oh Ruby, that’s wonderful.” Esme moved to get up, tested her ankle, then leaned forward to hug Ruby. “When will you do it?”

“In two weeks. After the miners’ dance.” Ruby returned her hug. “I want you to be next.”

“What?” Esme leaned away from her.

“Abel. I think he likes you. He was looking for you this weekend. He couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Abel. He had a passion about him, coupled with enough confident tease to make him dangerous to her heart. Most of all, he reminded her, right down to his easy smile, of Oliver. Except, look where that ended. She shook her head. “Abel is handsome, but—”

“Good men are hard to find in this town, Esme. Isn’t it about time for you to fall in love, to be happy?”

Happy. She was happy, wasn’t she?

No, most of the time, she was just scared. Scared that she’d walked away from any chance of happiness. Scared that no matter how she tried, God simply couldn’t bless her. Scared that, truly, she was on her own.

Esme looked at her choice of articles—a robbery at Adeline’s, Aggie’s list of eligible women, a notice about the upcoming miners’ dance, Ruby’s article about the union brawl, the mine report and her so-called interview with Daughtry—

A shrill cry pierced the air.

Ruby jumped, turned pale even as Esme recognized it as originating from the mine.

Trouble.

The whine of the whistle rattled the flimsy windowpanes in the front of the saloon.

Ruby whirled around, ran for the door, Esme behind her.

They stood in the street watching the plume of dust rise from the Pipe mine, choke the air, and darken the town of Silver City.

“These accidents are going to keep happening unless we unite and strike!”

Abel stood at the front of the assembly of miners, many of them still black-faced and wrung out from a week of digging through the dust and rubble for the survivors.

A cage had broken free as it transported a shift of miners to the surface. They’d fallen a half-mile.

Sixteen men dead. Esme had interviewed the living, wrapped her arms around the grieving, written countless articles about the loss, and stood at the gravesides as, one by one, young men returned to the earth.

She’d seen Daughtry that first day, just hours after she’d left him at the ranch, his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, dirty and sweaty as he worked alongside the miners for rescue. He’d even attended the funerals—standing away from the graveside grief, but close enough to offer the Silverthread’s condolences and hand over an envelope of sustenance on behalf of the mine. Usually, Archie sent one of his representatives—she had no doubt Daughtry’s past accounted for his presence at the gravesites.

That, and he might have been trying to avert the very event happening in the Miners’ Recreation Hall. The room stank of earth and sweat and not a little whiskey, and for the first time, Esme questioned the wisdom of her attending the meeting.

“Don’t you see, if we don’t band together and strike, we will die for the same pittance our brothers did? The Silverthread owes us, owes our families. The Hoyts sit in their mansion, eating off golden plates, while we go to bed with dirt in our mouths.”

Abel made a passionate leader, with his brown eyes on fire, his shirtsleeves rolled up, jacket off, suspenders securing his workpants. He gestured with his hands, probably working up a sweat as he prowled the front of the room, stirring up their anger.

“What about our families?” someone yelled from the audience. “If we strike, how will we buy food? They’ll shut down the mine store.”

“That’s why we plan ahead. We store up for trouble. We don’t play their games. The Silverthread can’t stay idle forever—”

Another man— “The Anaconda brought in strikebreakers—Pinkerton men. I don’t want to hang!”

Near the back, Ruby stood slightly behind Dustin. He’d barely made it out, having ascended with the first half of the crew.

“This is our fifth accident in as many weeks. Ground falls, misfires, explosives accidents with the caps and fuses, a ladder fall, and just a few days before the cage fall, an unbalanced load of timber crushed two of our guys. No one wants to say it, but this mine is jinxed. It’s time for the Silverthread to close, to make repairs, to pay us a decent wage for our work. All we want is a fair shake.”

These miners made twenty-five cents a day more than the miners at the Anaconda. But, was there ever a decent wage worthy of the miners’ lives? She wrote down Abel’s words, not sure Daughtry might ever find a way to appease them. He couldn’t guarantee their safety, their lives. And no amount of money could buy peace of mind.

“We’ve gone six years without a major accident, suddenly we’re having one a shift. A miner never knows if this shift might be his last, if he might end up toes up.”

Ruby wound her fingers around Dustin’s hand.

“Strike!” The word punched through the crowd and started the murmur. Another cry for strike. Esme eyed the door.

From the front, a man standing next to Abel stepped up onto a chair, held up his hands. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. “Strike, and let the brothers at the Butte Miners Union join you.”

Yes, she knew him now. Brawny, dark hair, a reddened nose from years of drink. He had been one of the first to throw a punch at the street brawl.

So, he must be a member of the Butte Miners Union. “We’ll help you fill the lines, defend you from Hoyt’s Pinkertons.”

Esme tried to imagine Daughtry employing Pinkertons. No, he’d let the mine go to Anaconda, despite his losses. And then, who knows what condition the mine would fall into? “What if you owned the mine?”