Elizabeth Lane (14 page)

“Whoa, there!” The stranger halted alongside him. He was wearing a black hat and slicker of the kind common to sailors, an odd sight in these parts. Beneath the sloping brim, his square, robust face was framed by dark sidewhiskers.

“Looks as if thee’ve run afoul of some bad luck, sorr.” In a country where a man’s speech marked him as friend or foe, the stranger’s accent was like nothing Donovan had ever heard. Not Cockney or proper British. Not Scotch or Irish, and certainly not American.

But this was no time for fine dithering. Not with the wagon pitched half on its side, the horses wild-eyed and snorting, and rain pouring down in solid gray sheets.

“Bad luck?” Donovan nodded slowly. “Yes, I guess you might say that.”

“Wheel, I see.” Brown eyes, sharp as a robin’s, surveyed the wrecked wagon. “Where be the spare?”

“Ask the idiot who rented me the damned rig!”

“No need t’ get sour, me son.” The stranger was already climbing down from the buckboard. He was not a large man, but there was a wiry vitality about him that spoke of strength and competence. “I’ve got a wheel right ‘ere that should fit.”

Donovan blinked through the curtain of rain that cascaded from his hat brim. “I’ll buy it off you. How much will you take for it?”

“Oh, ‘tisn’t mine to sell. This be a company wagon. But I’ll give ‘ee the loan o’ the wheel long enough to get the rig
into town. Come on, I’ve got tools in the back. I’ll ‘elp thee make the switch.”

“Only if you’ll allow me to buy you dinner at the hotel tonight.”

“Dinner? Aye, that I will.” The stranger’s grin flashed beneath the odd black hat. Then, without another word, he swung around the back of the buckboard and began rummaging in the tool chest that was there.

Only then did Donovan notice the rain-blurred red lettering, freshly painted on the side of the wagon box. Pausing to wipe away the water drops, he took in the words at a swift glance—Boston and Colorado Smelter, Ltd.

Donovan was still digesting what he’d read when the stranger came hustling back around the buckboard, armed with two hammers, a wedge and a crowbar. “Don’t just stand there,” he said with a grin. “Let’s change that wheel and get ourselves down the mountain to that ‘ot, tasty dinner thee promised!”

Sarah had gone to bed early. She lay there in the darkness, listening to the hollow patter of the rain and feeling lonelier than she had ever felt in her life.

The hours of the day had crawled by at the pace of a prison sentence, with nowhere to go, no one to visit and no one who professed to need her. She had tried cleaning, mending, reading, writing in her journal. In her loneliness, she had even considered a backdoor visit to Smitty’s, until she remembered that the girls were busiest in bad weather, when the men tended to cluster in the saloon.

As darkness fell, she had lit the lamp and begun rummaging through her clothes, books and other meager possessions, sorting things into piles for packing or discarding. Her good woolen skirt and Sunday shawl she would give to Varina, who needed them badly. The books she would leave behind for whoever took over her little school. Beyond those things, there was little left except for underclothes and toiletries. Fine, it would make sense for her to travel light.

Where would she go? Sarah mused now as she lay sleepless beneath the quilts. Maybe California would be a good starting-over place. Or even Canada. She didn’t care, as long as she never ran into Donovan Cole again.

A sudden knocking at the door startled Sarah out of her reverie. No, this would not be Donovan, pounding on the planks, demanding entry. This was a frantic series of raps, spurred by fear. Someone was in trouble.

Tossing aside the quilts, she flung on her robe and raced along the back of the schoolroom. Her fingers fumbled in the darkness, struggling with the latch. When she finally swung the door open, the young man on the other side almost tumbled onto the floor.

“Miss Sarah!” It was Myles Smithers, who lived in the creek bottoms with his young wife and four-year-old boy. He was drenched from the rain and wild-eyed with fear.

“It’s Betsy Mae, Miss Sarah! Her water’s broke and her pains’ve started. She’s hurtin’ bad, and I don’t know what to do for her. You got t’ come! Now!”

Sarah’s muzzy brain snapped into focus. Betsy Mae Smithers wasn’t due for nearly another month. If she was in labor now, something could be seriously wrong.

“Go saddle my mule!” she ordered the trembling Myles. “By the time you have him back here, I’ll be ready to go!”

As Myles darted off into the black rain, Sarah raced back to the bedroom, threw off her nightgown and began flinging on her clothes. She was deeply worried about Betsy Mae, but all the same, it was gratifying to be needed again.

Myles had brought his own scrawny pinto horse. He was mounted and waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Sarah, dressed, cloaked and clutching her black medical bag, emerged from the door and hurried down the stairs. Her sturdy mule stood alongside them, rain cascading down its patient sides.

“Creek was goin’ up fast when I crossed it,” Myles said. “Lord, I hope we can get back. Betsy Mae and little Eli’s all by theirselves down there.”

“Come on.” Sarah vaulted expertly into the saddle and dug her pointed boot toes into the mule’s flanks. The Smithers place wasn’t far—a couple of miles, at most. But fording the creek, easy enough for most of the year, could be perilous when the stream was swollen with spring runoff. Add the storm, and the crossing could be a nightmare. Worse, if the creek overflowed its banks, nearby homes, including the Smithers cabin, would be flooded.

The white rump of Myles’s horse flashed like a beacon as Sarah followed him through the dark rain. As they wound their way through the aspens along the creek bank, she could see the muddy current, swirling so high that it lapped at the mule’s shod hooves. The water would be deep here, well over her head. Even at the ford, it would be deep enough to drown in.

A brief image of Donovan, toiling through the rain, flickered through her mind. But no, he would be all right. He was probably in Central City right now, enjoying a drink and flirting with some pretty saloon girl. Not that it mattered one way or the other. What Donovan did was his own business.

“This way!” Myles’s horse lurched down the bank, and Sarah realized they had come to the ford. A chill of dread passed through her as the mule plunged into the swirling water. She clung to its sturdy neck, recalling the time when, as a child, she had fallen into an icy river and nearly drowned. That feeling of sick, cold panic returned now as the current sucked at her skirts, threatening to drag her out of the saddle and sweep her downstream. She worked her boots free of the stirrups and lifted her feet in an effort to keep dry.

The mule’s sure hooves found bottom and moved steadily ahead. Everything was all right, Sarah reassured herself. A few more seconds and they would be climbing up the opposite bank. If only Betsy Mae would—

“Look out!” Myles’s warning cry caught Sarah off guard. She glanced upstream to see a huge, gnarled stump sweeping down on her like a hellish black monster.

There was no time to get out of the way. The stump crashed into the mule’s side, knocking the animal off-balance. Sarah flew headlong out of the saddle. Her scream was cut off by the muddy water. It filled her mouth and nose as she clawed her way upward.

“Miss Sarah!” She could hear Myles yelling as she broke the surface. His voice echoed in the darkness, and she realized she had already been carried some distance downstream.

Coughing and spitting water, Sarah fought to stay afloat as the flood swept her along. Her cloak was a waterlogged weight—somehow she got free of it. But even then, the current was too much for her. Chilled and exhausted, she could feel herself going down.

“Miss Sarah…” Myles’s voice was faint, almost dreamlike now. Sarah drifted, resisting halfheartedly as the silky water closed over her head. An odd sense of sweetness stole into her benumbed mind.

Donovan,
she thought.
Donovan…

Yes…it was as if his arms were around her, as if she had come home, safe and warm at last….

Suddenly her hand touched something solid. Something big, alive and thrashing in the water.

The mule!

Shocked back to her senses, Sarah grabbed for the struggling beast. Her fingers clutched at the shaggy coat. They caught and held as she worked her frantic way along the saddle to clasp the straining neck. Her touch seemed to calm the mule. Its massive body heaved as it righted itself, feet suddenly finding bottom. Seconds later, it was plunging out of the water, dragging the exhausted Sarah with it.

“Miss Sarah, you all right?” Myles, on foot now, was sliding down the bank. “Mercy, I thought you was drowned for sure! Come on quick! We got to get to Betsy Mae!”

Hair and clothes streaming, Sarah crawled the rest of the way into the saddle. Her canvas valise was gone, washed away somewhere down the creek. Trying to find it would be hopeless. She would just have to make do without the precious medical supplies inside.

“Hurry!” Myles was urging Sarah on, fear making him heedless of her own condition. “I jist hope Betsy Mae’s all right. An’ little Eli. The poor mite must be scared nigh on t’ death, ‘specially if the water’s started comin’ in….”

Sarah gave the mule its head, trusting the wise beast to follow the horse. Willows, newly leafed, whipped her face as they galloped through the damp bottoms, splashing through ponds and puddles. Icy wind fingers plucked at her soaked clothes, numbing her flesh to the bone.

She sagged with relief as her eyes caught a faint glow through the trees. The cabin. It didn’t appear to be flooded yet, but the water was coming up fast.

Sarah took charge. “You get a shovel and shore up the low spots,” she ordered Myles as they reached the cabin and tumbled off their mounts. “I’ll go in and see to your wife. Go on, now, there’s nothing you can do in there.”

She slogged through the mud toward the cabin door, which yielded at a push. The flickering lamplight revealed a white-faced little boy, huddled in a corner of the room while his mother writhed helplessly on the bed.

“Betsy Mae!” Sarah leaned over the laboring young woman. “It’s all right, dear! I’ve come to take care of you!”

“Sarah!” The small, callused hands reached out to grip Sarah’s arm. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come, after what we done to you in church! You’re a angel of mercy for sure!”

“Hush! Lie still if you can, and I’ll check you.” Sarah turned to the little boy, who was staring at her with huge, frightened eyes. “Get your coat on, Eli. Go out on the stoop and wait under the eaves till your papa sees you. All right?”

The child hesitated, then ran to fetch his ragged little coat, which hung on a nail beside the door.

“Stay on the stoop and keep dry, now.” Sarah rolled up her sleeves, forcing her own chattering teeth to keep still. She had never felt colder, wetter or more exhausted in her life. But her own needs would have to wait. Right now, she had a patient to take care of.

“Button me, Miss Sarah.” Eli stood in his coat, clasping the open front. Sarah tried to look cheerful as she bent to help him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your mama will be fine. And soon you’ll have a new little brother or sister to play with. Would you like that?”

Eli’s lower lip quivered. “I’m scared, Miss Sarah.”

Sarah caught him close for an instant.
I’m scared, too
, she thought.
I’ve only delivered seventeen babies and read a couple of books, and I’m not even sure what’s wrong here, or what to do about it.

“Go and wait for your papa, Eli,” she said. “And while you’re waiting, say a little prayer for your mama. Will you do that for me?”

Eli nodded gravely, then spun out of Sarah’s arms and scampered out the door.

Sarah turned back toward the bed. Her body was chilling. She was weary to the point of collapse, but she could not think about that now. She could not think about tomorrow, or even about Donovan. In the hours ahead, her whole mind and strength would have to be focused on saving Betsy Mae and her child. Nothing else could be allowed to matter.

The beefsteak at the Golden Plume was as tough as boot leather, the gravy like congealed glue over watery mashed potatoes. Donovan had scarcely noticed. His plate sat almost untouched as he stared across the table at his newfound friend, Jamie Trenoweth from Cornwall. “Tell me more about this new smelter,” he said.

“So that caught thee fancy, did it?” Jamie shoveled another forkful of potatoes into his mouth. He was about Donovan’s age, with swarthy skin, twinkling brown eyes, and an appetite matched only by his boundless energy.

Jamie Trenoweth was a hard-rock miner, one of many such men who’d come over from England in the past few months with skills honed in Cornish tin mines, skills now being used to blast gold-bearing quartz out of Colorado mountainsides.

But the mill, the new gold-refining mill built in nearby Black Hawk, that was what had stirred Donovan’s imagination to a fever pitch. According to Jamie, its massive machinery could pound the resistant quartz to powder, making it possible to extract the gold by smelting.

“Blimey, wot’s to tell, laddie?” Jamie spoke between vigorous bites. “’Twas your American Mr. Hill bought the model in Swansea, me ‘ome town, and built ‘is own in Black Hawk. H’it’s been runnin’ nigh onto four months now.”

“And it really works?” Donovan’s mind was seeing the glittery quartz that abounded on the old claims at Miner’s Gulch, including Charlie Sutton’s. “It can really get the gold out of solid rock?”

“Works on gold just like on tin.” Jamie motioned to a passing waitress. “I’ll ‘ave another ‘elpin’ of these scrumptious potatoes, me beauty!” He bent to sawing another slice off the stubborn beef. “Now, sorr, if me wife was alive, I’d have her cook thee a real Cornish meat pasty! Always made ‘em for me lunch, she did, bless ‘er.”

“Your wife?” Donovan asked politely, his mind still on the gold smelter.

“Aye, lad. She died two years ago, she and our three little ones, all of a fever in the same week. Finest woman wot e’er drew breath. I’ve ne’er found another to take ‘er place.”