The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (10 page)

And what about the men who died in those dark pits? Those with families left wives and children in poverty. Yet, the owners of the mine owed them nothing. Accidents happened and, as Doc had pointed out, the men who went into the mines knew the risks.

Back when she’d worked at the boardinghouse, she’d felt so close to the miners. She’d cooked for them, cleaned for them, seen and spoken to them every day. It felt strange, almost wrong, to be a mine owner’s wife now, benefitting from the hard labor of all those poor lads, sitting comfortable in her house while the miners slaved away in the bowels of the earth.

It was more than unfair. As far as Emma was concerned, the risks those poor men faced were monstrous. Something needed to be done.

After Doc had left, Emma broached the subject with Logan. They were relaxing on the sofa when she told him about her meeting with Eddie McCoy.

“I heard Doc’s views on mine safety,” she said. “But I can’t say I agree. Why can’t the mine owners do more to keep the men safe? For that matter, why can’t you?”

Logan had been drifting off. At her words,
he opened his eyes. “What’s this? You’re sounding like one of those crusader ladies.”

“Maybe I am. When I think of that poor young man and that awful pinned-up trouser leg…” Emma sighed. “I can’t forget the hopeless look in his eyes. All his dreams, crushed in an instant.”

“It was an accident, Emma. Nothing could’ve been done to keep that rock from falling or that boy from being there when it happened. Doc was right. The men know the risks, and they take their chances for the money. For every miner who gets hurt, there are hundreds more coming home with money in their pockets.”

“But—”

“No, listen. When you’re at the bottom of a shaft, you’ve got a mountain above you—rock, dirt, water, gas pockets, you name it. The things you can do to control that mountain are pretty damned pitiful. You can brace up the tunnels with timbers and take care with the dynamite, but the mountain is what it is, and it’s got a whole damned bag of tricks hidden away—tricks you can’t see or hear or feel until it’s too late.”

Emma studied his classic profile. Love of risk was woven into Logan’s character. He saw nothing wrong with the idea of men imperiling
their lives for profit as long as they were aware of the dangers. She understood his point of view. But that didn’t mean she had to share it. How could she? How could she forget that Billy John had been a miner, and that so many young men like him were risking their lives underground while she sat in her comfortable house, living off their toil and doing nothing to help?

“Well, then,” she persisted, “what about men like Eddie McCoy, who get hurt so badly they can’t work, or the widows and orphans left behind when miners die? Surely the mine owners could reach into their pockets and help them.”

Logan exhaled wearily. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. But all the owners would have to agree to it. Otherwise, think what would happen. Say I gave two hundred dollars to Widow Jones, whose husband had been killed in the Constellation. Every miner working for me would expect the same binding promise, in writing, for their families. And when word got around to the other mines, their workers would demand the same thing. There’d be strikes, riots, complete chaos.”

“But couldn’t you talk to the other owners, suggest some kind of plan?”

“Emma, if they even bothered to listen,
they’d laugh in my face. Why should they spend money they’re not spending now, just to make some poor folks happy? Doc said it all. The mining business is about profit. and there’s nothing you and I can do to change that.” He reached up, caught the back of her head and pulled her down for a lingering kiss that set off sparks of heat. “Now, what do you say we forget this business and wander off to bed?” he murmured.

Emma returned his kiss, feeling the familiar rush of desire. Whatever their differences during the day or her worries about the future, Logan’s touch never failed to arouse her.

It didn’t mean that she loved him. It couldn’t. She wouldn’t let it. How could she ever love the man who’d killed her sweetheart? She and Logan had an arrangement, that was all. For now, that arrangement seemed to be working. But the bond that held them together had nothing to do with love.

Logan swung his feet to the floor and swept her up in his arms. Sinking against his chest, she let him waltz her into the bedroom. For tonight they would leave their troubles outside the door. But those troubles would be there, waiting like baited traps for the light of tomorrow’s dawn.

Emma was dreaming again—fearful images etched against a black hell. She was stumbling blindly through a maze of tunnels, guided only by the echo of running footsteps ahead of her. The ground quivered like bog moss under her feet. From somewhere behind her came the faint drip of water and the rumble of shifting earth. The air smelled of dampness and dust.

“Emma!”
A voice floated down the dark passage.
“Emma!”
It was the voice she had known and loved. But something in its tone sent a chill through her body.

Turning a corner she saw him. In the pitch-black murk, he glowed faintly, hovering ghostlike above the floor. He was even thinner than in life, almost skeletal. The gunshot wound was an ugly red hole below his collarbone. Torment glimmered in the depths of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Billy John.” The words sprang to her lips. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “You could have given me honor, Emma. You could have given me peace and set me free. Instead, you’ve sentenced me to
this!”
He held up a spidery hand. The flesh was so transparent that Emma could see the shadowed bones beneath. “Don’t you
know what happens to a soul who dies without justice?” he rasped. “Look at me!”

“What can I do?” she cried. “Tell me.”

“You have a choice. What you do is up to you.” He seemed to be floating backward, away from her.

“Wait! Don’t go!” She plunged toward him. “Let me—”

Her words ended in a scream as the ground disappeared beneath her feet and she pitched into bottomless dark.

Emma woke with a violent jerk. For an instant she lay rigid, paralyzed with terror. Then she felt the baby flutter inside her. Resting her hand on her belly, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Little by little her thundering pulse slowed. She became aware of the bed, the darkened room and Logan sleeping beside her.

She was safe. But the dream had shaken her to the core. Whether sent from the dead or spun from her own guilt, there could be no ignoring its message. She had profited from Billy John’s death—and she had yet to keep the vow she’d sworn as he lay dying in her arms.

This house and the fine things in it were not hers to keep. She’d done nothing to earn them,
let alone deserve them. They were nothing more than the means to carry out her promise.

Wide-awake, she willed her thoughts to roam free, searching for possibilities. Hurting Logan physically was out of the question, as was anything illegal, anything that might harm innocent people, or anything that might affect her baby’s welfare.

She would have to settle for her earlier plan of punishing her husband until he broke and either struck or abandoned her. Then he would be sent to jail, where he belonged. True, Logan had been good to her. But that didn’t change what he’d done or blot out her promise to Billy John.

Somehow she had to make him pay.

The next day she set out early to finish her errands before the heat set in. It was Tuesday, her day to visit Billy John’s grave. On the way back she planned to pick up an extra skein of lambs’ wool for the baby shawl she was knitting.

Emma had barely set foot on the Chinese bridge when she saw a figure crossing from the opposite direction. Even at a distance, she recognized the dark, curly hair of Alice May Watson, one of the friends who’d turned away after she’d wed Logan.

It was an awkward moment. Alice May, who worked as a maid on the hill, hesitated, as if to turn around and cut through the gulch to avoid her former friend. Then her chin went up and she strode forward. The two met in the middle of the bridge.

“Good morning, Alice May,” Emma said.

Alice May passed her with a nod and a muttered greeting. After walking a few more steps, she stopped.

“Emma.”

Caught off guard, Emma turned back. “What is it?”

“I just thought you should know. Clarissa’s husband was killed in the Mayflower Mine yesterday. Crushed in a cave-in.”

“Oh, no!” The news struck Emma like a gut blow. Pretty little Clarissa Rogers had married her miner two years ago at the age of seventeen. They had a one-year-old boy and another baby on the way. Tragedies like this one were all too common in mining country, but every one was still hard to bear.

Emma fumbled for her pocketbook, scooping out all the bills and thrusting them toward Alice May. “Give her this. She’s going to need it. I’ll try to get her more.”

Alice May shook her head. “Clarissa won’t
take it if she knows who it’s from—you being married to a mine owner, and all.”

“Then lie to her!” Emma shoved the money into Alice May’s hands. “Tell her whatever comes into your head. All I want is to help.”

Still holding the cash, Alice May took a step backward. “I’ll give this to Clarissa. But if you really want to help, get men like your husband to do more for the miners! the mules in those mines get better treatment than the men do!”

Wheeling, she hurried on across the bridge. Emma stared after her, her heart pounding. Fragments of last evening’s conversation spun through her mind. Eddie McCoy. The dangers in the mines. The indifference of the mine owners—all for the sake of profit.

Get men like your husband to do more for the miners!

Could she do it? Heaven help her, somebody had to push for change. If not her, then who would take a stand? Logan would be furious, but…Wait,
Logan would be furious
. That was what she’d spent all morning trying to contrive—a way to rile him up against her and get the revenge she had promised Billy John.

Strikes, riots, complete chaos…

Her plan fell together like a thunderclap.

E
mma started the next morning with firm resolve. After seeing Logan off for the day, she tidied up the kitchen, donned a modest frock with a loose-fitting jacket and sat down at the table to write a note in her neat grammar-school hand.

When the note was finished, she tucked it into an envelope, printed a name on the outside and slipped it into her pocketbook. Putting on her straw hat, she stepped out onto the front porch, locked the door behind her and set off down the road.

She was doing the right thing, she assured herself. Her mother would be proud of her. And maybe now those tormenting dreams about Billy John would end.

By the time she reached the Chinese bridge, her stomach was clenching like a fist. She’d convinced herself her motives were for the greater good. But even if her plan succeeded, the consequences could be disastrous. The worst of it was she’d be dealing with the last man on earth she’d have thought to ask for help.

On Main Street, she window-shopped her way to the office of the
Park Record
. After making some inquiries, she left the envelope with the receptionist and continued on her way. Taking her time, she wandered down a muddy side street toward the Chinese settlement. A voice in her head shrilled that she should turn around and go home. Emma willed herself to ignore the urge. It was too late to stop the forces her note had set in motion.

The café was little more than a shack. There were three tables with chairs and a counter where a grandmotherly Chinese woman sold tea and little fried cakes dipped in sugar. After ordering a cup of tea, Emma sat down at a table with a view of the door. Sipping her tea, she forced herself to wait.

“Mrs. Devereaux, as I live and breathe.” The figure in the doorway wore a checkered coat, a bowler hat and a gleeful smile. Emma suppressed the urge to cringe as Hector Armitage
took the seat across from her. Removing his hat, he wiped his glasses on his handkerchief and replaced them on his freckled nose. “Your note was quite intriguing,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?”

Logan had planned to spend the morning going over the mine’s accounts, but he was too restless to focus on columns of figures. Instead he found himself wandering up the dirt road from the office to the hoist works.

A mine, he’d learned, could be as complicated as a small city. The Constellation’s single shaft was worked upward from the bottom. Tunnels, shored up with square-framed timbers, branched outward from the shaft like limbs from a tree trunk, to follow the most promising silver veins. A hoist raised and lowered the cages and brought up the ore. Off to one side of the shaft was a changing room where the miners got in and out of their work clothes.

The ore was mined by using a compressed air drill to make a grid of holes in the hard rock. Sticks of dynamite were thrust into the holes. The blast deepened the tunnel and left piles of rubble. Muckers shoveled the waste rock down the shaft and loaded the good ore into hoppers which were hoisted to the surface.

Over the hill, in the next canyon the huge Ontario complex had a network of tunnels and their own stamp mill, which Logan could hear from where he stood. The Cornish pump and drainage tunnel enabled the shaft to go as deep as fifteen hundred feet, far below the six-hundred-foot level where groundwater became a problem. The Constellation shaft was already six hundred feet in depth. If groundwater came up into the shaft, it would be necessary to either install a pump and dig a drainage tunnel or sink a second shaft somewhere. That meant another gamble—another huge investment that might or might not pay off.

Would it be worth the risk?

What would Emma have to say about it?

In matters of mining, Logan had come to value his wife’s knowledge. He’d meant to ask her that morning what she thought about the options. But she’d seemed so preoccupied that he hadn’t bothered. He understood that women could be moody when they were pregnant. But today it had seemed more than that. It was as if she’d gone off to some mysterious place where he was forbidden to follow.

Maybe it was nothing. Her dark spell would probably pass with the day, and he’d arrive at the door to be greeted by her warm smile and
the fragrance of a good hot dinner. Logan had come to look forward to homecomings. To his amazement, he enjoyed being a married man.

But how could a man be truly married when he hid secrets he could never share with a living soul—especially his wife? As a gambler and a fugitive, he’d long since learned to mask his private emotions. Over the years that reticence had become second nature. Could he break free of it for the sake of his marriage?

That was the question that kept him awake at night.

He cared for Emma and wanted to make her happy. But even if he were to fall in love with her, he’d be a fool to open his heart to her completely, sharing his feelings and the secrets of his past. Giving his heart to a woman who’d vowed to punish him for her lover’s death seemed a dangerous thing to do.

Likewise, Logan knew better than to wonder if Emma loved him. Their passionate nights filled a mutual need, but he knew better than to trust her. Most of the time he had no idea what was going on in that beautiful head of hers.

Logan stood for a moment, gazing up at the peaks and listening to the hiss of the steam compressor. Something was out of kilter with Emma today. But until he knew what it was,
there was little he could do except wait for the ax to fall. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked back down the dirt road to his office.

By the time she’d finished her second cup of tea, Emma had laid out her plan. Armitage leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow cocked as he listened.

“I can do the interviews,” she said. “I’ll talk to the people who’ve been hurt in the mines and to the widows and orphans of those who died. But I’m not a reporter. That’s where I need your help.”

“So you want me to write up the story and publish it in the
Record
. Is that it?”

“More than just the
Record
. This story belongs in papers all over the country. Everyone needs to know how heartlessly these people have been treated by the mine owners—rich men with no regard for the safety and welfare of the workers who line their pockets!”

“That includes your husband, yes?”

Emma swallowed the tightness in her throat. “Yes, it does.”

Armitage toyed with a pimple on his chin. “Here’s what I think. Writing your story and running it in the
Record
would be no problem. Neither would sending it out. But even here
in Park City, it wouldn’t make the front page. As for big papers like the
Denver Post
, they wouldn’t give it a second glance.”

Emma stared down at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. “You had no trouble selling the story of Billy John’s death or the story about Logan’s trial.”

“Those stories were so sensational they sold themselves,” Armitage said. “But nobody wants to read about poor, sad souls whose lives were ruined by their greedy employers. There’s no thrill of excitement in that. What your story needs is something that’ll make folks clamoring to read it, and papers clamoring to run it.”

Emma stared at him, only half comprehending. Until now she’d thought her plan to help the miners and defy Logan in the process was perfect. She’d been confident that Armitage would agree to help. But she’d been unprepared for his reaction.

“Are you saying you won’t help me?” she asked.

“I’m not saying that at all. In fact I think it’s a dandy idea. But if we’re going to do it, we need to do it right. The story needs something to sell it, a shocking twist or a scandal that will make it jump right off the page. It needs…”
Armitage paused for effect. “It needs Emma O’Toole.”

Emma’s teacup clattered into the saucer.

“Think about it,” he said. “Nobody wants to read about your poor miners. But they’ll want to read about
you.”

“Ridiculous.” Emma felt vaguely sick. Maybe it was the tea. “The last thing I want is to call more attention to myself.”

“But that’s how you’ll get people reading about conditions in the mines. Make this story about you and your crusade against the wicked mine owners, including your husband, who has already done you such a wrong. With the right slant, that’ll sell papers.”

“I can’t imagine they’d find me that interesting.”

“Then
do
something interesting. Something outrageous.” Removing his glasses, Armitage leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in an attitude of contemplation.

“Eureka!” His eyes shot open. “I’ve got it! Just the thing to make folks sit up and take notice.”

Emma found herself edging back into her chair. Whatever the slimy reporter had in mind, it was bound to be distasteful. But she couldn’t carry out her plan without him.

“I’m listening,” she said.

He leaned toward her, his breath smelling of horehound. “What if you were to go down in a mine to see the working conditions for yourself? That would make a sensational story.”

She stared at him. “Impossible. The miners would never tolerate a woman underground.”

“That’s exactly why it would be such a sensation. You’d have to go in disguise, of course. But with me helping you, it shouldn’t be that hard. So, what do you think?” His grin broadened expectantly.

Emma sat in stunned silence, weighing the idea. It was as outlandish as anything she’d ever heard. But, heaven help her, it just might work. Not only would going down in a mine draw attention to her story, it would also lend credibility to anything else she had to say.

For a moment the thought of Logan’s anger and humiliation made her hesitate. But wasn’t that what she wanted, to punish him? Hadn’t that been part of her reason for coming up with this plan in the first place?

Straightening her spine, Emma took a deep breath. “It would have to be the Constellation, of course.”

“Of course.” Armitage’s grin broadened.

“And what about the interviews? Should I do those first?”

Armitage waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll talk to the widows and cripples myself. I’ll write the story. You make the headline.”

“What about getting into the mine? That won’t be easy.”

“I’ve already thought of that.” His eyes measured her frame. “You’re tall and broad shouldered for a woman. I can get you some baggy overalls that’ll cover what needs to be covered. You can stuff the top with cloth to even out your figure and hide your condition. We’ll add a little fake moustache and a helmet to hide your hair. As long as you keep your mouth shut, you’ll fit right in.”

“But what about the changing room? That’s where the men get into their work clothes.”

“We’ll find some way around that. Give me a day to get everything ready. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

Trust me
. That was a joke, Emma thought. Hector Armitage was the last man on earth she should trust. This whole scheme was sounding more and more like a bad idea. But unless she came up with something better, her only alternative was to do nothing at all.

“I should go,” she said, rising.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Armitage kept his seat, a mocking grin on his face.

“No. I just need to breathe some fresh air.”

Catching her thinly veiled insult, he chuckled. “Tomorrow, then. Same time, same place. I’ll be waiting here to tell you what I’ve come up with.”

She left without saying goodbye, quickening her steps to get away. Hector Armitage made her skin crawl, but she’d reached the point of desperation. To help the miners and maybe put Billy John’s ghost to rest, she was ready to make a deal with the very devil.

Maybe she already had.

Logan surprised her that evening by coming home early. “Put on something pretty,” he said. “I’m taking you to dinner at the hotel.”

His announcement caught Emma off guard. “Why? Is there some reason to celebrate?”

“Who says we need a reason? I’ve been working hard, and so have you. A night out will do us both good.” He studied her, frowning. “You’re not too tired, are you? You’re looking a little peaked.”

“No, I’m fine.” Guilt gnawed at Emma as she hurried to change. What kind of woman
would conspire against her husband, while he was going out of his way to spoil her? And Logan did spoil her, she reminded herself. In the two months of their marriage, he’d never denied her anything she wanted.

All that was about to change.

The sea-colored silk gown was too tight for her now, but Emma had a subdued dark blue bombazine that was fine enough for the hotel and wouldn’t call attention to her blossoming figure. It took her only a few minutes to change her dress, smooth her hair and add the silver filigree earrings he’d surprised her with a few weeks earlier.

With her hand resting on Logan’s arm, they strolled over the Chinese bridge and down along the boardwalk that lined Main Street. The June evening was warm, with the last rays of sunlight casting a fiery glow over the Wasatch peaks. Piano music twanged relentlessly through the open entrance of a saloon.

Across the street, in the offices of the
Park Record
, newly installed electric lights were flickering on. Hector Armitage, who seemed to have no life apart from his work, was probably at his typewriter, pudgy fingers hammering out his version of the latest scandal. When
it came time to write up her newest escapade, the reporter would no doubt be at his lurid best.

Emma’s eyes stole a furtive glance at Logan’s chiseled profile. Logan had shown himself to be a patient husband, a good provider and a thrilling lover. But after she carried out her scheme all that would change. The gloves would come off and things would never be the same again.

Where was the ordinary life she’d wished for—a humble home, children and a husband to love with all her heart? It was as if she was living a twisted version of her dream life. She had everything she’d ever wanted, but it was all wrong. And the only way out was to make it worse.

“You’re a quiet one tonight. Is something on your mind?” Logan’s soft-spoken question shattered her musings.

She forced a smile. “Sorry. Just muddling. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. Maybe it’s because of the baby.”