The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (12 page)

One of the men had begun to cough, the wet, hacking sound that marked the early stages of miner’s consumption. Emma couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She crouched in the dark, the walls pressing in on her. The fetid air was rank with dust and sweat and sickness. It filled her lungs like poison, seeping into her body, reaching with ghostly black fingers as if to touch her child. A rat scampered across her foot. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.

She could feel the rising panic. Her pulse
surged. Cold sweat beaded her face. Unable to contain herself, she lurched to her feet.

Stars of pain exploded as her head crashed against the overhanging rock. Bruised darkness swirled in her vision. Her legs began to crumple. She might have fallen hard if a nearby miner hadn’t caught her from behind and eased her to the floor of the tunnel. As she went down, Emma had the vague sensation of his arms circling her chest and her swollen waist. She heard his horrified gasp as he bent over her, his hand making the sign of the cross.

“Holy Mary and Saint Joseph,” he muttered. “He’s a woman!”

It was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

Logan was at his desk, reading up on the newest equipment, when Frank Helquist burst through the door. “You’d better get to the shaft head, Boss,” he panted. “All hell’s broke loose up there!”

Logan bolted out of his chair and pounded up the road after his foreman. Was it a cave-in? An explosion? Had someone been killed? Every story he’d heard about the dangers of mining flashed through his head. Of all the things he’d considered when he decided to work the mine,
he’d never weighed the odds that men would die there.

He was breathing hard by the time he reached the shaft house. Through the open side door he could hear the hiss of the steam engine that raised the cage. Stumbling over the threshold, he lurched through the door.

The cage was just coming up. Six grim-faced miners, gray with dust, spilled out of the top level. Only when the cage rose a few more feet did Logan see what was in the bottom.

The figure slumped on the floor of the cage was dressed in dusty work clothes and miner’s boots. But there was no mistaking the golden braid that had fallen loose from a now-missing hat, or the haunting beauty of that dirt-smudged face.

Logan felt his heart drop.

Questions slashed through his mind as he plunged toward her.
Was she alive?
That question vanished when she whimpered and tried to lift her head. But there were others not so easily answered.
What was she doing there? Was this the revenge she’d been plotting against him?

By the time Logan reached her, the miners had lifted Emma from the cage onto the plank floor, where she lay curled like a child. Only
when Logan crouched low enough to see her face did he realize she was weeping silent tears.

“Emma.” The name stung his throat like smoke. “Emma, can you hear me?”

When she didn’t answer one of the miners spoke. “She’s been in and out of it, Boss. Hit her head a nasty blow down there.”

Logan’s fingertips brushed the crown of her head. A shudder passed through her body as he touched the swollen lump. “Get the buckboard up here, and some blankets if you can find them,” he barked. “I’ll be driving her back to town.”

“A female in the mine! That’s bad luck. There’ll be hell to pay for this.” Frank Helquist stood over them, his powerful legs like pillars. “Miners won’t even work where a woman’s been. And her in a family way. What the hell was she doing down there?”

“That can wait, Helquist. Right now I just need to get her to a doctor. See if you can hurry that buckboard!” Logan cradled Emma’s head in his lap. What in heaven’s name had she been thinking?

The foreman took a step toward the door, then turned back. “Damn fool bitch ought to be arrested,” he growled. “Do you know her?”

“I do.” Biting back fury, Logan wiped a streak of dirt from Emma’s cheek. “She happens to be my wife.”

The buckboard swayed down the rutted road, its wheels grinding around the curves. A bone-slamming bump shocked Emma out of her stupor. With a gasp, she opened her eyes.

She was lying on her back, the sun a blinding dot in the midday sky. Turning her head to one side, she glimpsed the hills flying past above the sides of the buckboard. Beneath her, a scratchy horse blanket, folded double, cushioned her body against the jarring ride. A rolled coat pillowed her head.

How had she gotten here? It was coming back now—the drop of the cage into the dark pit, the heat and filth surrounding her, the strain of the work making her feel dizzy and sick and then her sudden surge of panic. Her head was throbbing. Yes, that was it—she’d risen too fast and crashed against the rock. One of the men had caught her as she went down. Someone must have pulled off her fake moustache, because it was missing now.

She was in trouble. Big trouble.

Little flutter kicks in her womb—the baby was all right, thank heaven. Whispering a
prayer of relief, she braced with her arms and sat up. As she’d feared, Logan was on the driver’s bench, his back toward her.

Emma found her voice. “Logan.”

He stiffened at the sound of his name but didn’t turn around. “Lie still and be quiet, Emma. We’ll talk later.”

“But I need to explain—”

“Later.” His tone was like the closing of a steel trap.

“Are you taking me home?”

“I’m taking you to the doctor.”

“But I feel fine now.”

“Don’t argue, Emma. You’ve already pushed me to the wall.” He slapped the reins on the haunches of the sturdy bays. The buckboard lurched ahead, down the rough dirt road.

Emma hugged her knees in silence, hunching lower as the buckboard neared the upper end of town. The doctor’s home office was nearby, on a side street. At least not many people would see her riding in the back of her husband’s buckboard, dressed in filthy miner’s clothes—not unless Logan chose to parade his disgraced wife down Main Street.

Logan halted the buggy in front of the doctor’s place, set the brake and came around to help Emma climb down. Only when she looked
into his glacial eyes did she realize how furious she’d made him. The worst of it was, he had yet to hear the full story. He’d be even angrier when he learned about her deal with Armitage.

He steadied her arm, holding her as he might hold a stranger. “We don’t have to do this,” she pleaded. “Just take me home. I’m fine. So is the baby.”

“We’re going to make sure.” He steered her up the walk to the front door. The doctor, a balding man of sixty, answered Logan’s knock and ushered them into his examining room.

“An accident.” Logan answered the doctor’s question before he could ask it. “My wife bumped her head. The blow knocked her unconscious. You’ll want to check her for a concussion. And she’s expecting a child, as well.”

“I see.” The doctor glanced from Emma to Logan. “Have a seat in the hall, sir. This shouldn’t take long.”

A beat of silence passed before Logan walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Perhaps he’d wanted to stay with her, Emma thought. But why should he, when he had every reason to stop caring about her?

The doctor’s scowling gaze took in Emma’s strange costume and dirty face. “You’re Emma O’Toole, aren’t you?” he said.

“I’m Mrs. Devereaux.”

“Do you mind telling me how you bumped your head?”

“I hit it on a rock.”

“I see.” His tone suggested he didn’t believe her. “Well, sit down, Mrs. Devereaux. Let’s have a look at you.”

Logan was too restless to sit. He paced the hallway, his thoughts churning as he waited for the door to open. What if Emma’s head injury was serious? What if her accident had harmed the baby?

After the stunt she’d pulled today, why should he even care?

He had every right to be furious—hellfire, he
was
furious. His wife had plotted against him, deceived him and humiliated him in front of his workers. But when that cage had come up and he’d seen her lying there, his first thought had been that his life would be over without her.

What had she been up to, sneaking into the mine like that? If she’d done it to embarrass him, she’d succeeded. Word of her escapade was bound to get out. But there had to be more to the story. When he’d taken her home and she’d had a chance to rest, he would demand to know everything.

Minutes crawled past before the door opened. The doctor stepped out into the hall and motioned Logan aside. “Your wife has a mild concussion,” he said. “She’ll need rest, but watch her closely for the next twenty-four hours. Don’t let her sleep more than an hour at a time. If she has a lot of pain, or if you have trouble waking her, send for me.”

“What about the baby?”

“Everything seems fine.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “Let me be frank with you, Mr. Devereaux. Whatever’s happened is none of my business, but a woman in your wife’s condition mustn’t be subjected to the kind of injury she’s suffered. Hit her head on a rock, indeed. She’s lucky it wasn’t worse, and so are you!”

The implication rocked Logan. Lord, did the man think
he
was the one who’d hurt Emma—maybe shoved her down causing her to strike her head?

Arguing with the doctor would accomplish nothing. All he wanted was to get her out of here and take her home. Reaching for his wallet, he paid the doctor for his services and strode past him into the examining room. He found Emma slumped on a stool, her face streaked with tears.

Ignoring the doctor’s accusing gaze, he took her arm. “Let’s go,” he said.

Emma allowed him to lead her outside and help her onto the wagon bench. She huddled beside him, drowning in his silence as they took the road through the Chinese settlement and up the hill toward home. If only he would shout at her, rage at her. But that would come, she was certain. It would come when they were alone, behind closed doors.

Logan halted the buckboard alongside the house. Spotting a neighbor boy, he offered the lad a few coins to drive the rig to the livery stable for the night. Emma left them talking and fled into the house. The rooms were shadowy and cool, the lace curtains drawn against the sunlight. A bouquet of gentians and wild columbines, purchased from a street child for a few pennies, sat in a blue china vase on the kitchen table.

This house was her refuge, her own little palace. But it was Logan who paid the rent. For all she knew, she could be out on the street by nightfall. She would have no place to go but the shanty where Billy John had worked his claim.

As for making Logan angry enough to strike out at her so that she could put him in jail, how
could she have believed that plan would work? Anytime Logan felt threatened, all he had to do was clean out his bank account and leave the territory. True, abandonment would be violating his “sentencing” from the judge, but it would come to little. There were plenty of places where a man could hide and never be found—California, Mexico, even South America. With a little money, he could live well. If he’d had enough and decided to leave, then she would never see him again.

Emma was in the bedroom, bare feet stepping out of dusty overalls, when she heard the front door click open. Logan’s footsteps rang across the floor. She reached for her dressing gown, whipping it on as he stood into the open doorway. His gaze was like the touch of ice on her skin.

“When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be in the parlor,” he said.

Emma stood frozen as his footsteps faded away. Willing herself to move, she wet a washcloth and sponged her face. She could dither and stall, take the time to get dressed, fix her hair, or maybe even take a much-needed bath. But that would only postpone the inevitable. Sooner or later she would have to face her husband.

Knotting the ties of her dressing gown and thrusting her feet into bedroom slippers, she forced herself to walk down the hall to the parlor. Logan was seated in his armchair, a half-filled glass of brandy in his hand. Emma sank onto the sofa, facing him across the room. Despite the tension, she felt strangely numb, as if her nerve connections had been severed.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“You can start with
why.”

The words came bit by bit, each one more draining than the last. “It all began with my promise to Billy John. The guilt. I had nightmares where he told me I’d betrayed him—that he couldn’t rest easy because I’d broken my word. I couldn’t stand it. I had to do something.”

“But this? Why this, Emma?”

“It wasn’t just about punishing you. It was…like we discussed. I wanted to do something to force mine owners to help the miners. I… wanted to let people know about the dangers in the mines, and how the owners wouldn’t help. Hector Armitage said that if I went down myself—”

“Armitage?”
Logan was on his feet, the glass
clattering to the floor. “That little worm put you up to this?”

Emma shook her head. “It’s not what you think. I was the one who approached him. I needed his help with a newspaper article. I thought I could interview Eddie McCoy, maybe some others, and get enough information about the dangers of mining to get everyone interested in demanding some changes. He told me that if I wanted people to read it, I would have to—” Emma’s hands had begun to shake. She clasped them hard in her lap. “Don’t you see? I was trying to do something good!”

“But behind my back? With Armitage, of all people? Lord, Emma!” He strode across the room, gripped her shoulders and yanked her to her feet. “Did he get you those clothes?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her heart pounding.

“Did he drive you to the mine and tell you what to do?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it, don’t you realize how he used you?”

“It wasn’t like that. It was more like I was using him.”

“Using him to get back at me.” It wasn’t a question.

She forced herself to meet his seething eyes. “That’s right, Logan.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, you succeeded!”

Thrusting her away from him, he turned his back and stalked toward the front door. Thrown off balance, Emma staggered against the sofa. As she righted herself, a pain like hot lightning bent her double. A warm wetness gushed between her legs.