Strong and Stubborn (10 page)

“I want to stay,” Naomi blurted out without even thinking. “When Lacey comes out of that dark, forsaken place, she'll need us. I can't go back and wait in the café for everyone to come down for dinner!” Frankly she couldn't believe Evie suggested it at all.

“No, no, no.” Evie shook her head. “I left stew on the stove, and we already have bread and rolls. I was thinking of slicing up some ham for sandwiches then bundling it all up and carrying it back. It won't take very long, and we'll get everything taken care of.”

“I think we'll be more in the way than helping if we try to go near the rocks,” Cora confessed. “I don't want to slow them down because I'm too stubborn to admit that I'm not equipped for this.”

Her friend's wisdom speared Naomi, making her feel her heartbeat in her injured hands.
I would be slowing the men down, trying to work like this. And if Lacey needs help once she comes out, I won't be of any use if I keep abusing my hands
.

That thought clinched things. Naomi nodded and held up her hands. “It's not as though I'll be of much use here anyway. I need to get these taken care of so I can help with other things.”

Her friends' clucks of dismay vied with the clamor of men tearing apart the mountainside, both ringing in Naomi's ears as they made their way back to town. She enjoyed a brief interlude of quiet while the doctor inspected and cleaned her hands, the other women watching and waiting for his pronouncement. Naomi bore no illusions—she knew her friends expected her to make light of any ailment. They'd known each other too long and too well to pretend otherwise, though at one time none of them would have stayed alone with a male doctor—back when they'd thought more of guarding their reputations than rebuilding a ghost town or saving a friend in need.

At this point none of the Hope Falls women would meet the standards of polite society. Their unconventional choices, along with their story-spawning residence alongside two dozen lonely bachelors, managed to tarnish their once-sterling reputations.

Lacey, in particular, had shown a disturbing talent and enthusiasm for ruining herself. If word ever reached Charleston that her cousin had gone on long escapades in the woods with a hunter and finally been trapped alone in a dark mine for hours on end with that same hunter, Lacey Lyman's name wouldn't be worth a plug nickel.

Which isn't fair! Lacey deserves to be treated as the lady she is. No matter that she thought up the ad, Lacey's innocent
. Naomi flinched as the doctor dug his tweezers into her flesh, picking out bits of stone.
If any of us should be ostracized
—she flinched again as shards of buried memories pierced through her
—it should be me
.

Not Lacey!
Braden clenched his teeth against the urge to start shouting. If he started railing against God, he didn't know whether he'd be able to stop.
Not my sister! You already did this to me
, he raged in silence, as though even whispering the accusation might bring down whatever remained of the mountainside he'd once claimed.

His eyes burned from staring down the small wooden cross nailed on the opposite wall. Braden blinked, but his eyes still felt dry, swollen, and sore. He knew it was because he didn't close them often or long enough, but to do so meant succumbing to darkness.

Groaning, he closed his lids, pressing his palms against them as though to blot away his accursed memories. It didn't work. The nightmare that used to plague him only when the doctor forced morphine down his gullet had grown stronger over time. His breaths came short and shallow as the darkness pressed in on him, around him, surely seeping into his very soul through every breath. If he stayed this way much longer, he'd start to see them again.

He waited anyway. His eyes needed the rest, but Braden deserved what came with it. It began slowly … it always started slowly. Braden knew the collapse happened in a deafening, blinding rush of sound and suffocation so fast he barely knew what happened. But memories spooled more slowly, giving the destruction its due.

His partner Owens's angry words were drowned out by an incredible roar as the mountainside tore apart. Wooden supports buckled, stones tumbled, dirt rained until it gave way to clouds of dust coating Braden's face, mouth, throat—and his very soul
.

Cave-in.

While it lasted, he prayed for it to end, but in the silence he heard the screams, shouts, and cries of injured men the next tunnel over
. Oh Lord—what have I led them to?
It wasn't until he heard a moan but couldn't move toward the sound that Braden realized his legs were pinned beneath something—his hands told him it was a wooden support burdened by rock and earth
.

I can't feel my legs.
It didn't seem to matter. He lay, time measured by ragged breaths and unrelenting thirst. His men grew quiet. Braden strained to hear them, but silence steadily won until he prayed for even the screams and sobs from before
.

He opened his eyes to the harsh sound of his own breath, safe and sound in the doctor's home. The sunlight streaming through the window did nothing to reassure Braden that the nightmare had ended. How could it, when the same tragedy had just played out all over again?

Not Lacey, Lord
. His chest hitched in a dry sob.
Don't let her suffer in the darkness
. He knew he was a beggar with precious little to barter, but Braden shed his pride.
Please, God. Don't take my sister for my mistakes. Take anything else … stop the healing so I never walk again, but let Lacey live a long and happy life
.

“Braden?” Cora's soft question jolted him from his pathetic attempt to strike a bargain with God. Concern creased her brow, making Braden notice the fine lines he knew were his fault.

“Where's Lacey?” He peered past Cora, hoping against hope.

“We haven't broken through the barricade at the mine's entrance yet.” Cora crossed the room to fold his hand in hers. “But we're close—and we spoke with Lacey and Dunstan. They're right on the other side, so we won't have to go searching once we break through!”

Her touch, her words, offered a warm comfort Braden wished he could sink into and soak in forever.
Lacey's been found, and soon she'll be freed
. He could have cried out with the relief of it. But there was still so much he didn't know. Were Lacey and Dunstan going to be all right once pulled out of the mine? Were they hurt? There would be no way of knowing their condition until then.

“We didn't stop working long enough to talk much, but I'm told they sounded in good spirits.” Cora squeezed his hand, making Braden realize how pathetic he looked if she thought he needed assurance.

“What took you so long?” he snapped, swallowing his fear and guilt. They weren't for her to see. His pain wasn't hers to pity. Braden could keep that burden at least from her slim shoulders.

“Naomi wore through her gloves and blistered her hands bloody from trying to dig through the landslide.” She didn't say anything more, but the unspoken accusation stung him.
Because Naomi is doing your work—we all are and have been since we came to salvage Hope Falls from the mess you made of the town—and our lives
.

“Fool.” He snorted back a bellow of rage that he couldn't be out there, tearing his own hands to bring down the mountain. What was a woman doing up there, taking on a man's work? That was the problem with all four of them—they didn't know their place, so the women found themselves in a heap of trouble Braden couldn't prevent. “After today you girls should learn to stop sticking your noses into men's business and just stay where you're wanted.”

Cora didn't speak for a moment, instead staring at their joined hands. Slowly, as though handling a snake that might lash out at any sudden movement, she withdrew from the contact. She drew a deep, shuddering breath, squared her shoulders, and headed for the door.

“I have more questions,” Braden shouted. “Where are you going?”

She paused but didn't turn back to him. “Where I'm wanted.”

“Wait!” Braden called out and reached for the woman he'd always loved, but it was too late. She was too far gone, and so was he.

T
here wasn't a man on the mountainside who didn't sense the women's return long before they rounded the bend. Never mind the distance. Never mind the noise. Never mind the dirt and debris weighing the air.

Stew
. Mike's stomach rumbled after the aroma winding its way up the mountain. The few cold biscuits he'd eaten early in the morning didn't even make a decent memory now. The men around him paused in appreciation of the heavenly scent then attacked the earthen barrier with more vigor than they'd displayed in the past hour.

Mike followed suit, loathe to appear idle when the women appeared. The work distracted his grumbling stomach—or, at the very least, disguised it. Once he smelled supper, nothing could actually stop his stomach from sulking. Loudly. Not even the last of the warm water sloshing in the bottom of his canteen muffled it.

He put his back into the work and tried to keep his mind off his stomach by keeping one eye on the road. The rhythm of his pickax became a series of countdowns awaiting the women.
Three … Two … One …
Nothing.
Three … Two … One …
Still no sign of them, but Mike's nose stubbornly insisted that supper stayed nearby.

Suddenly his gut clenched—and it had nothing to do with an empty stomach. Images of a faceless man crushed by a massive boulder flashed across his mind. If their excavation caused more damage, the men wouldn't have heard the rumble of rocks cascading down the side of the mountain. Given enough speed, it wouldn't take a large one to hurt somebody standing below.
What if the women were hurt?

Mike almost dropped his pickax at the thought but caught himself and the tool before anyone noticed. Leaving the implement leaning against one of the multitude of rocks lying around, Mike scrambled down from his perch. He noticed some of the men watching him, saw the scowls darkening their faces, and knew the axmen assumed he was trying to get a jump on the supper line. Earning the enmity of the men he hoped to work alongside wouldn't serve his son well. Mike glanced around for an acceptable reason to leave.

A pile of canteens caught his eye. Earlier the women had filled the extras and left them for the men. By now Mike suspected the men had drunk every drop. Digging was dry, dusty work. He snagged one, forcing himself to look disappointed when he discovered the thing was bone dry. Shrugging, he looped a dozen of the things over his shoulder. Fetching water—especially enough so that other men could partake—made an excellent pretext for heading down the mountain. He rounded the bend in record time, only to pull up short.

There was no sign of the women, save that same tantalizing aroma. For a moment Mike wondered whether hunger muddled his mind, that he smelled supper when there was in fact no supper to be found. To his right stood the outcropping where Naomi found the body. Mike had heard Granger instruct a team of men on how to retrieve the body and had seen the men return, so it was safe to surmise the stones no longer hid the corpse. Nor did it seem as though any dangerous pieces had shifted. In fact, now that he could take time to think it through, Mike figured that any trouble would've raised the type of caterwauling and carrying-on sure to bring the men running.

Then again, Mike had thought it safe to assume that the death site would be the last place any woman would think to set up supper. So with no sign of trouble and no sight of the women up ahead, Mike stopped in the middle of the road, stymied. The copse of trees to his left should preclude that area—who would want to dodge trees and underbrush while carrying cookery? But as he stood staring, he glimpsed a flash of blue skirts swishing between the trees.

Relief had him heading toward the trees without a minute's thought. Sure enough, he spotted all three women almost right away. The trees didn't signal the start of forestland, as Mike assumed. Instead they shaded a wide clearing.
The women probably chose it because they knew the sight of food might make the men stampede
.

It sure smelled good enough to stampede for. Now that Mike knew the womenfolk were fine, he should head back. The canteens wouldn't fill themselves, and his fellow workers might note his long absence. But Mike found himself loitering near the trees, mouth watering as he watched the women set up no fewer than three stewpots atop makeshift fires. A large stump held baskets of some kind of bread with stacks of tins waiting to be filled and served to the men.

At that thought, Mike managed to pull himself away from the welcoming sight and hurry off to what he'd nicknamed Canteen Stream. Water flowed clear and strong into the empty containers. Mike filled his own canteen and emptied it in long gulps until the cool water washed away the layer of dust coating his lips and throat. Mike would take the honest freshness of sawdust over mountain dirt any day of the week; at least sawdust smelled good.