Heiress (29 page)

Oh, why had she said that? The words just erupted out of her, and every head turned. But it seemed they wanted the answer to be easy and— “What would you do to make the mine safe, to make it more profitable?”

“It’s already profitable!” a voice said just as she found Abel’s gaze upon her. She couldn’t read the look he gave her.

“Yes,” Abel said above the crowd. “They’re making money off our broken backs. They just want to work us until they crush us.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but it had the effect of a blade, slicing through the crowd, through her. More murmurs, more anger.

The Butte man began a chant for strike.

She had enough for her article, and Ruby would fill in the rest, from Dustin.

Outside, Esme gulped in the fresh, night air, the smell of the explosion having finally dissipated over the hills. No machinery grinding in the distance, no smells of fire burning. Stars spilled overhead like tears, the steel headframes over the mine entrances in the distance like silver skeletons.

She pulled her coat around her, headed toward the
Times
office. Maybe Daughtry should sell—walk away from the deaths, the anger. But she feared that in the hands of the Anaconda—

“Esme?”

The voice, now quiet, even filled with hurt, stopped her. She turned, and in the cool starlight stood Abel, his jacket off, his eyes on her, breathing hard as if trying to catch her. He had such an earnestness on his face, something moved inside her. Had he been trying to impress her?

“I thought perhaps the meeting part had ended, the rabble-rousing beginning. I’m just starting to walk right.”

He cupped a hand behind his neck, glanced at the recreation center. “They’re just angry. And hurting. And…scared.”

He let his emotions show then, in his eyes, and she drew in a breath. Scared. He too, was scared.

In a second, however, he’d flushed it away. He stepped closer, caught her arm. “Can I walk you home?”

The gallantry in his request touched her. “Yes.”

He held out his arm and she slipped hers through it, not unaware of the strength there. After all, he did shovel ore for a living.

“Do you really think Daughtry wants to crush you?”

Abel took a moment in answering. “The Hoyts live out there in their castle—”

“It’s just a farmhouse, Abel. Yes, they have a couple of servants, but they’re two bachelors living alone. They need help and hands to run the place.”

“Daughtry lives a glittering life in New York City off our hard work. He doesn’t care who he kills to make his millions.”

She considered her words a moment before she allowed them. “Is this about Orrin? About how much you hate Daughtry?”

He stiffened under her hand. “I know you went out there. Spent time with him.” He turned to her, stopped them. “Don’t you see that he’s just using you to get to me? He saw me helping you away from the brawl that day and ever since, he’s been after you. To take you away.”

Take her away? “But Abel, I barely know you. And, I went out there to interview him.”

“I’ll bet he told you how we bullied him in school.”

She stilled.

“What he didn’t mention is how he bullied us too. He rode to town in his shiny red-wheeled carriage, in his New York clothes, and talked about how someday he’d own us all.”

“He’s not that boy anymore—”

“And now he wants you too. Well, he can’t have you.”

She should have seen it in his eyes, heard it in his tone, but he cupped his hand behind her neck and kissed her. Hard, and passionate, and with a hunger that she understood.

And, for a moment, she let him. Because she longed to be wanted, to be lost again in Oliver’s arms, to know love.

But this wasn’t love, and it took her only a moment to come to herself, to put her hand on his chest, to push. “No, Abel, please.”

Abel leaned away, breathing hard. Her heart lodged in her throat, her heartbeat evaluating his expression.

But he leaned away. “Sorry. I thought…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Esme.”

She stepped away from him, fighting the rush of her pulse in her ears. Anger spiked her words. “Stop trying to make your grief into a sporting event. You’re more interested in winning against Daughtry—”

“And robber barons like him—”

“Than feeding your miners. Than making sure they’re safe.”

Abel froze. “That’s not true.”

“Then you tell me—isn’t it odd that the Silverthread has gone six years without an accident, and suddenly there are five in the past five weeks? Could it be that someone wants to do the mine harm?”

Her words seemed to sink inside him. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know. Someone who wants to force you to strike?”

His mouth tightened just a little around the edges. “Anaconda?”

He whispered it, but she felt the implications rustle through her like the fragments of winter still remaining on the breeze. “If the miners went on strike, you just might force the Silverthread into bankruptcy. And then they’d be forced to sell to Anaconda.”

“But I heard that Hoyt wants to sell the mine anyway. Maybe he’s doing this.”

Her heartbeat had settled into a hard, solid thump now, and standing in the darkness, heat stirred inside her. “I can promise you that Daughtry Hoyt would not be behind any mine sabotage.”

Abel considered her and acquiesced in a short nod.

“Before you strike, prove that it’s not sabotage. Please. You don’t want to work for a company that’s been killing you.”

That made him draw in his breath. “I’ll find out the truth. Because I do care more about the safety of my fellow trammers than Daughtry Hoyt and his crimes.”

“He’s sorry, you know. That’s why he left—because of his guilt.”

Abel shook his head. “We’re all sorry. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“You don’t believe in second chances?”

“Sure I do. Just not for everyone.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets, walked away from him.

“Do I still get to see you in a dress?”

She glanced back at him. “Abel White. You don’t ask for much, do you?”

He grinned at her, his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

* * * * *

President Roosevelt had turned down her interview request. Esme stared at the telegram.

Pres. Roosevelt unable to accept interview request. Thank you for your inquiry.

Office of the President.

Clearly Esme Stewart hadn’t ascended the journalistic hills she’d hoped. Probably she shouldn’t have signed the request as from the humble editor of a small town weekly in Nowhere, Montana.

She should have used her name, Esme Price, daughter of August Price, owner of the
New York Chronicle.

She crumpled the telegram, dropped it into the waste bin under her desk. The next issue would go to bed tomorrow night, and she still had about 30,000 characters of type to press into the linotype machine, not to mention layout of the slugs onto the plates that would go to press. She sat at the hulking machine, the keyboard just above her lap, her apron dark with powdered graphite, the text clipped to a board above the keys.

Ruby and Hud sat at turtles—metal stone tables—laying out the slugs from the galley mat onto the form, called the chase, on their way to the lead mold.

“I’m out of line rules,” Esme said.

Hud handed her a tray of long lead slugs that separated the galley type in the final printed page.

She picked one out, ran the makeup rule over it to clean out any traces of extra lead before placing it in the chase.

“Your article on the miners’ strike is nearly half this paper,” Hud said.

She measured out the picas for the next line with her line gauge, reached for the next slug, and measured it out. Then she grabbed the slug cutters.

“It’s because it’s big news. You were there—the BMU leader nearly had them ready to pick up signs, not to mention the hubbub Abel caused.”

“This issue is going to sell out. We might want to print extras.” Next to Ruby, Hud filled up any spaces in the galley with spacers called reglets, then added the wooden blocks where the photographs would appear. He also added the set galleys of advertisements onto the bottom of the pages, the gaps left by Ruby to the appropriate size.

“Don’t forget to give me a proof,” Esme said as she collected the next mat filled with loseo linotype and delivered it to Ruby, along with the article.

Hud ran ink over the type with a brayer then pressed a blank sheet of paper over it, hammering on it with the planer so every nuance of ink might sink in to create a proof. He tightened the “quoins” or rods that held the chase tight. How many times had she gone to press with misplaced words or even sentences out of order? She hadn’t dared send those back to New York.

She always caught her breath, just a moment, when Hud lifted the chase from the turtle to the press. If he hadn’t tightened the quoins or added enough filler slugs, the entire page would fall from the chase. Thankfully, in his magic, Hud had only “pied” the type a few times. But they’d had to reset the entire page and put their production schedule back an entire day.

“Someday, we’ll be able to afford a rotary press,” she said as he loaded the chase into the press. The rollers would ink the paper, and then, the paper, manually fed, would move under the stationary bar as Hud cranked it. Sometimes, she manned the pages.

So far, they’d managed a print run of nearly two thousand every week of their eight-page, four-plate paper.

He handed her a copy of the printed front and back page.

Miners Talk Strike at Recreation Hall. She scanned through the article. She’d left out her conversation—and speculation—on the road with Abel. Mostly, because it screamed conjecture, but…what if they were correct? What if someone was sabotaging the mine?

The thought had her asking questions to her ceiling long into the night.

“So this is where the news happens.”

The voice startled her, and even Hud looked up from where he worked on another galley.

Daughtry had donned his cowboy aura today. A charcoal gray hat, a pair of trousers, a dark cotton shirt, a leather jacket. He seemed worlds away from his mention on the
Chronicle’s
infamous Page Six, but perfectly right for Montana. He looked down at her with those dark eyes. “So, no strike?”

She handed the page back to Hud. “Not for now, no.”

Daughtry tipped his hat to Ruby. She gave him a smile, only a hint of warmth in it. Perhaps all the union talk had spoken to her heart.

“Can I speak with you privately?”

She glanced at Ruby, at Hud. They had effectively pretended that Daughtry had vanished.

“I have to put this paper to bed. It comes out tomorrow.”

“It’ll just take a moment.” He lowered his voice. “Please?”

Oh, his voice could tunnel right under her skin, through her brain, take possession of her common sense. “I’ll be right back.”

She stood up, led him out of the press area into her cluttered office, the former kitchen. Glancing outside, she noticed his shiny brougham wasn’t parked out front. Perhaps he had decided to live undercover as well.

“You look nice today,” he started.

“I’m covered in graphite, I’m tired, and I look like a man. What can I do for you?”

He drew in a breath, and she immediately hated her abruptness. It was just he’d also been the reason for her fatigue, the fact that he’d done exactly as she’d asked and stayed away from her. Didn’t call on her.

Made her feel as if she wasn’t worth fighting for.

She closed her eyes, ran her fingers over them. “I’m sorry, Daughtry.”

“It’s okay. I know I’m not the most liked man in town right now. And, you’ll never look like a man, Esme.”

The texture of his voice made her open her eyes. He was smiling. “Who put that in your head?”

“I don’t know. Man’s job. Man’s world. I’m a man.”

He reached out, pushed her hair back behind her ear where she’d tried to contain it into a braid at her back. “You’ll never, ever be a man.”

Oh, he possessed powers to undo her. She looked up at him, those dark eyes, and for a moment wished it had been him that had kissed her under the stars. Then, she might not have pushed herself away, might have lost herself in his embrace.

But, and the thought needled her—what if Abel had Daughtry’s refinement, his resources? Would she prefer Abel, with his passionate eyes, his vibrancy?

She stepped backed from him before she did something to give herself away, picked up a towel, and wiped her hands. She probably had graphite under her eyes.

“How would you like to go to dinner with the President of the United States?”

She stilled, searched his eyes for tease. Had he been reading her mind, her mail? “What?”

“I just got an invitation for dinner at Ellis Carter’s mansion. For next week. Would you like to attend with me?”

See the president? Oh—maybe then he’d agree to an interview. Except—and she’d considered this when she’d sent the interview request—what if he recognized her? Maybe didn’t remember her name, but recalled her father? What would Daughtry say?

Or Abel?

Certainly there’d be no more invitations to the miners’ meetings.

“Why…me?”

“Because I have the feeling you know how to use the proper fork.” He raised an eyebrow and she felt all her lies rise to the surface. “And, because I miss you. I saw you every day last week at the mine, and longed to talk to you. But I knew that if I did, you’d become a pariah too. And that’s not helpful for the newspaper woman in town, is it?”

Oh, why did he have to be so—so…thoughtful? “No, I guess not.”

“But I can’t help myself—I would like to go to dinner with the most beautiful woman in Montana.” He took her hand. “Will you accompany me, Esme? Please?”

The most beautiful woman in Montana. On any other man’s lips, it might have sounded ridiculous, but it seemed almost regal from Daughtry.

“I—”

“And in case you’re suggesting you have nothing to wear…” He winked. “I have that covered.”

She couldn’t help but stare at her current attire. For a moment, the image swept through her—her hair up, a dress that fit her every curve, long gloves, a glittering choker at her neck. And Daughtry, in a waistcoat and tails, waiting by his shiny brougham to take her to dinner, his gloved hand out, a smile playing on his lips.