Jasper Mountain (10 page)

“Open your hands and hold them up,” she ordered. The figure complied. “There’s a lamp and matches on the table,” she continued. “Light the lamp. And move slowly.”

The shadow did as she was told. Isabella held her gun, wishing it were bigger.

The figure struck a match. A flash of light revealed an oval face surrounded by cascades of curls the color of midnight. And those eyes. Deep, filled with sorrow and something else. Wisdom? Isabella felt she looked into the knowledge of the ages.

The lamp glowed. Light from the flame intensified, and she saw not just a woman stood before her, but a breathtaking creature. Something in her expression caught Isabella’s attention. Desperation.

A beautiful, desperate woman in her kitchen. How incredibly fortuitous.

Isabella smiled. Then, realization faded her delight.

“Ah. You’re the Gypsy,” Isabella said. “From the settler party.”

In reply the woman’s eyes grew even larger, something Isabella didn’t think possible.

“Everyone is searching for you, my dear.”

“Please. No.” And the voice. Bells on the wind. If Isabella were a man, she’d be hard as a stake. Such a shame this woman was married. What a waste.

“Your husband is turning Jasper upside down trying to find you.” Isabella raised her eyebrows. “I understand why.”

The woman’s attention shifted to the gun, and suddenly Isabella felt silly holding it. She lowered it.

“I am wife to no man.”

“Really?” Isabella asked with interest. “That doesn’t make much sense, my dear.”

“The man is not my husband. My father died on our journey. Rolf took me in.”

“I see. Not out of the goodness of his heart, I’ll wager,” Isabella said. “Imagine that. A man taking advantage of a helpless female. Such an awful situation. How horrible for you.”

“He insists to make me his wife, here in Jasper.”

Isabella found the woman’s slightly awkward use of English added to the exotic mystery wrapping her like a delicate mist.

“And you, my dear?” Isabella asked. “What is it you want?” Isabella guessed by the Gypsy’s air of desperation, she wasn’t a willing bride. “What’s your name?”

“Milena.”

“Well, Milena, I am Isabella St. Claire, and you have come to the best place possible, considering your situation. No one understands fleeing from a man better than I.” For a second he flittered through her mind, the pursuer in her nightmares. She pushed the thought of him aside. No matter.

“Please, some food? Only a little.”

Isabella gestured to the table. “Have a seat, my dear.”

The Gypsy sat, clutching her bag to her. She watched the room like a skittish cat about to bolt while Isabella opened the pantry door.

“I have no money,” Milena said, settling the velvet sack into her lap. “I see the future. I can tell your fortune, for food.”

Isabella placed cheese and bread before the woman. Milena lunged and ripped the bread apart with her filthy hands. She devoured the chunks like a starving animal, then lowered the bread, seemingly embarrassed.

“Please, continue. You must be starving.”

Warily, Milena tore off another hunk, her dark eyes scrutinizing Isabella and the large kitchen. She ate, obviously assessing her situation. Isabella surmised the Gypsy owned a keen intelligence.

“However did you manage to avoid your—what did you say his name was?”

“Rolf.”

“Ah, yes. Rolf. However did you manage to avoid him and Jack Buchanan? They set off to search for you, and there is only one way up.”

Milena nodded. “I slip past them in the dark.”

“I see.” There was much more to this woman than the obvious, but wasn’t that always true? And something the male of the species had yet to figure out, regarding all women. For their place of domination, men were unbelievably thickheaded. Luckily, Isabella didn’t share such an unfortunate trait. She immediately recognized Milena’s value. An exotic Gypsy. A fortune-teller. What wonderment she might add to the Boarding House’s entertainment. The Gypsy would command the highest compensation from some lucky client. What man didn’t want a taste of pleasure from another land? The problem would be deciding to which man to grant such a rare treasure. Isabella smiled. Then again, not a difficult decision at all. The one with the most money.

“Do you have anywhere to go? Any plan? Whatever will you do?”

Milena lowered her eyes.

“Marriage to Rolf is not a preferred solution?” The Gypsy’s gaze snapped up with anger. “I will not be wife to Rolf Olsson.”

“Yes, well, I certainly can’t blame you there,” Isabella said. “Why don’t you stay with us? This is a boardinghouse for ladies, and I am the proprietress. As fortune has it, I have an empty room. You’ll need to stay hidden until the party leaves town. They should be gone in a day or so.”

Milena closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, cocking her head as if she listened to something. She nodded. Her eyes snapped open. Startled, Isabella jerked back.

Milena’s expression melted into resolve. “I will stay with you.”

“I’ll explain to the other ladies my cousin has come to stay and fell ill along the way of her journey. She needs solitude. She must be left alone to recuperate. Besides, no one in town really pays much attention to our little boardinghouse.” Isabella thought of her donations and the special attention her ladies provided to the sheriff any time he cared to visit. Money and services well spent.

“Why do you help me?” Suspicion curled through the question.

“Why, indeed? Milena, we are women trying to survive amidst the savagery of the West, without the protection of a husband. We women need to stand together.” Isabella leaned forward. “I feel it is our solemn duty to help each other on the frontier.”

Milena would help Boarding House business. Of that, Isabella had no doubt.

“I’m sure we’ll discover some suitable manner for you to return my generosity.” Isabella settled back into her chair. “But later. For now, relax and enjoy your meal.”

Milena resumed eating but studied Isabella. The Gypsy’s attention did not intimidate her. No one yet possessed the ability to truly see into her. Everyone saw exactly what she wanted them to see.

For all her obvious intelligence, her exotic and mysterious ways, the woman was no match for Isabella St. Claire. Besides, the Boarding House was much better suited to Milena than the dim-witted, lumbering Swede accompanying Jack Buchanan and Digger on their search. Isabella was providing a safe haven for Milena. Doing her a service. Saving her.

“You’re safe, Milena. Trust me. You’re safe now.”

J
ack, you are a cross to bear.” Puffs of dust rose around Digger’s boots as he trudged up Gooseneck Road.

“Yup,” Jack agreed. The morning’s walk up the mountain did not improve his mood, either. He was just plain irked at his own apparent uselessness. “Let’s see, searched for Tom, nothing. Searched for Laney Olsson, nothing.”

What he didn’t bother to mention was his return to work after his “suspension.” Not the best way to start the day. Jack turned at the sound of scuffling behind them. Mouse scurried up beside, then fell into their rhythm, two steps for each one they took. His pants tucked in his boots, canteen belted around a coat any man would wear, and a hardboil on his head, the boy looked more than ever like an adult diminished in stature by the rough life in the mines. The boy with the seriousness of a grown-up provided a hurtful reminder of the futility of this life. Or, at least, the futility of Jasper.

“Hey, kid,” Jack said before remembering the boy couldn’t hear him. Mouse wasn’t interested in the two men, but mesmerized by the eastern sky. Jack followed his gaze. Color extended over the flatlands, and the mountain shone with the brilliance of white-gold morning light. Jack wondered if Tom or Laney Olsson were able to enjoy such a beautiful morning. One person he knew didn’t see it was Victor Creely. The man started work before dawn. Jack didn’t understand these “captains of industry”—men who sacrificed everything for the good of figures on a piece of paper.

“Well, leastways, Rolf didn’t kill me,” Digger said. “That worked out good enough.”

“True. And if he’d tried, I might have been obliged to stop him—”

“Ain’t no way you’d stand a chance.”

Jack finally laughed. “Again, true. Hey, I don’t suppose you checked Tom’s cubby when you got back?”

Alarm flashed in Digger’s eyes, then as fast as it appeared, the look was gone. “Hey,” Digger answered, “I don’t suppose I did. That thing is locked up tighter than a virgin’s drawers anyhow.” He grinned and began his hat throw trick. Jack wondered if he’d imagined or misread Digger’s expression.

The boy followed Digger, the two of them tossing hats into the air and racing in zigzags around the road trying to get under them. For a moment they appeared so young and without a care in the world. Jack hated seeing them go down in the mine. No one should spend his days hunched down in the black of the mine. Not a young, carefree man like Digger. And certainly not a little boy.

Finally arriving, the three took their place in lines already forming; Digger, next Mouse, and finally, Jack. Other men fell in behind him.

Victor Creely came out from the mine office and stood on the spacious porch, the stone building being the only vantage point above the headframe. Jack was sure Victor built it on the highest point of the mountain on purpose.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Master Creely himself keeps watch upon us all. Look alive, all of you,” Jory slurred from behind. Dull pain thudded into Jack’s back. Jory’s elbow. “Stand up straight, Buchanan. Show Creely what his pup’s made of.”

Jack clenched his hands at his sides. Balled them into fists.

Two officers emerged from the office and flanked Victor: to his left, George Barger, or Turtle, as the miners called him. Short, balding, the man tried to hide his hair loss and never went without his derby hat. His plaid suit might have fit in better days; now it stretched beyond decency. He was responsible for the day-today operations of the mine. He’d never been belowground.

Edmund Blum stood to Victor’s right. His thin frame hunched over, but not from mining. Hours pouring over numbers and the weight of tracking the mine’s profit slumped his shoulders. A young man, his demeanor echoed a much older gentleman. A sad one. The miners didn’t see much of Edmund, but despised him nonetheless, just as they did every officer of the Jasper Mining Company.

How did a business thrive with so much hate?

“Ain’t that a fetchin’ group of ladies?” Digger asked, and sniggers erupted. Mouse stared up at the officers, his face like a soldier who lived too many years and saw too many battles.

The platform appeared and screeched to a halt, empty. Men stumbled onto the waiting wood. The platform filled, Digger stepping on it and turning to grin and wink at Jack. Jack grabbed Mouse’s shoulders, keeping him from squirming his way through the men and jumping aboard. They ran these damned platforms much too full. Injuries mounted every week, torn arms, broken shoulders. Skin peeled from hands and faces. The deck filled enough for the plunge. Jack hadn’t been able to help Tom, but he’d be damned if something happened to this kid while he was around.

Pain exploded in his back. “You and the boy get on the platform, pup! Now!” Jory yelled above the hum of idling machinery.

Jack dug in his heels and held tight to Mouse. The roar of a steam engine filled their ears and the ground swallowed the miners.

“Buchanan, let go of that lad,” Jory said loudly. “Afraid he’ll get lost? You can always go lookin’ for him like you do ever’one else. Found anyone yet, pup?”

Laughter followed the comment, ramping up the heat under Jack’s temper. “Mind your own business Jory,” he said loudly and over his shoulder.

“You are my business, pup! We don’t have all fookin’ day to get down there.”

Pain burst in Jack’s back again. Same spot. Jack let go of Mouse and whirled around to face the shift boss.

“Do not touch me again,” he said evenly.

Jory’s eyes rounded with mock fear. And amusement. Jack turned back around. Another burst.

Jack whipped around, launching himself into Jory, his anger torn free. The shift boss fell back, into the dust. The lines of men converged and circled, shouting insults, obscenities, and cheers. Jack jumped on Jory. The older man raised his knee, found leverage, and flipped Jack over. His face hit the ground. He tasted dirt. A heavy bulk landed on his back.

A roar filled Jack’s ears, but not from a steam engine. Blood surged through his body. A year of watching men die and not being able to stop any of it. Investors growing richer while good men’s spirits were ripped from them forever. Boys working to exhaustion when they should be playing outside and dreaming of futures filled with possibilities.

In one swift move fueled with fury, Jack rolled the bulk over, straddled, and punched, his fist meeting loose, whiskey-sopped skin. Jory’s defiant face crumpled. Jack hit again. Tears spurted out of Jory’s mean, piggish eyes, and blood from his nose. And again. More blood, from his mouth.

Jack stopped, his fist raised in the air. What was he doing?

Someone lifted him, dragged him through the crowd, and suddenly Turtle’s face loomed in front of him. “Go home, Buchanan,” spit from his pinched lips. “You’re done here.”

Jesus, he’d finally done it.

Fresh from suspension, he got himself good and fired. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he forget why he stayed; what he worked every day to keep?

Jack choked back his retort. Whatever came out would spew like lava. He kicked his hardboil and it skidded through dust. Leaving it behind, he shoved his way through the crowd and headed down.

He’d just lost the ranch.

Anger shot through him. He wanted to pound, to scream, to roar with it, but he’d be damned if he was going to put on a show. He stopped and bent over, hands on knees. Trying to calm panic. Pushing back anger. Frustration. All of it. He needed to get control.

A noise, a familiar one of feet scuffing in the dirt, made him glance over his shoulder. Mouse, eyes squinted and adult-serious. His hardboil candle listed at an angle. Melted wax adorned the rim of the boy’s hat in drips of frozen tears.