The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (13 page)

“Logan!”

His hand was on the doorknob. He turned at the sound of her cry. “What is it, Emma?”

She gasped out the words. “It’s…the baby!”

E
mma lost the baby late that night.

The midwife, a sturdy, graying woman who lived down the hill, stayed long enough to clean up and pack her against bleeding. “Your wife will be all right,” the woman told Logan as he paid her fee. “She’s young and strong. She should be able to have more children. Sometimes these things happen for a reason.”

On her way out, the midwife handed him a kitten-sized bundle wrapped in flannel and laid in a wooden box that had once held cigars. The baby had been a girl. Emma had pleaded to have her buried next to Billy John. Logan had promised to see it done. But it was too early yet to leave his wife alone.

With the closed box on the kitchen counter,
he walked to the bedroom door and stood looking in at her. Emma lay in exhausted slumber, her hair a sweaty tangle, her face blotched by tears. True, she might have other children someday. But never another child by the boy she’d loved. Her last remembrance of Billy John Carter was gone.

So what now? They were at a crossroads. He’d done his best to be a responsible husband. He’d given her everything she wanted and more. But he’d kept himself apart from her, guarding his secrets and holding back what a woman needed most—his trust and his unconditional love. Maybe that was what had allowed her to betray him. A betrayal that had hurt them both, and that had started this dreadful chain of events. How could they move on from all that had occurred? What future could they have now?

With no baby coming, Emma would need him less. Set her free, with enough cash for her needs, and she’d have no trouble marrying someone more to her taste. Surely the court wouldn’t fault him for that. He could sell the damned mine, leave town and forget he’d ever heard of a woman named Emma O’Toole.

Logan’s eyes traced her shadowed profile against the pillowcase. Even like this, wounded,
tearful and exhausted, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

But that didn’t mean they were good for each other.

Leaving her, he walked through the parlor and out onto the front porch. He’d lost track of the time, but The darkness in the sky was fading with the first streaks of dawn. It was blessedly quiet at this hour. The lights were out along Main Street. Even the stamp mills had stopped their accursed pounding. Logan could hear the cries of bats as they knifed the darkness with their velvet wings.

He lingered for a time, filling his lungs with the crisp dawn air. the midwife had promised to come by first thing in the morning and check on Emma. He would pay the woman extra to stay while he took care of the baby’s burial. The sexton, who lived across the road from the cemetery, should be available to do the job.

Raking a hand through his hair, he turned and went back inside. He’d been up all night, but he was too tightly strung to sleep. He would look in on Emma once more, then get himself ready for what was bound to be a trying day.

Emma was still asleep. Only as he stood watching her did his weary mind recall that
she’d had a concussion and shouldn’t be allowed to slumber too long.

Bending over her, he reached out and brushed the damp hair back from her face. She whimpered and stirred.

“Wake up, Emma.” His finger traced a line down her cheek and along the curve of her chin. She whimpered again and rolled onto her back. Her eyes shot open, staring up at him in the dim light.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“Nothing.” He stroked her forehead. “The doctor said you shouldn’t sleep too long at a time, that’s all.”

She strained upward. One hand reached up to clasp Logan’s arm, fingers gripping like claws through his sleeve. “I did it, didn’t I? I killed my baby in that mine!”

Working her hand loose, he raised it to his lips. “It wasn’t your fault. You saw the doctor afterward. He said the baby was all right, remember? These things just happen sometimes.”

“No. If I hadn’t gone down there—”

“If you hadn’t gone down there then I wouldn’t have brought you home, and you’d have been alone when the trouble came, unable to send for help. The baby would be gone, and I would probably have lost you, too. There’s
nothing you could have done to stop this. You have to believe that, Emma. Otherwise you’ll torture yourself for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t believe it. I won’t. I never will.” She turned her head toward the wall. “I know how much you must hate me, Logan. If it’s any consolation, I hate myself even more.”

“Stop it!” He stretched out on top of the covers, and drew her close. Her body was warm, her skin damp with sweat. “You’re my wife,” he muttered. “You’d have to do a lot worse than this to make me hate you, girl.”

For the space of a long breath she lay silent against him. Then a sob broke loose from her throat, followed by another and another. He cradled her as she cried, kissing her hair and the back of her neck, aching with her. His wife was broken in body and spirit. She would need time to heal. Until she was stronger the questions about their future would have to wait.

The midwife came by at seven o’clock. By then, Logan had shaved and dressed for the day. Emma had gone back to sleep. For an extra dollar the woman agreed to stay with her, fix her some breakfast and help her change while Logan took care of the baby’s burial.

With the box sealed and tucked into a small
satchel, he crossed the Chinese bridge and headed down Main Street. The cemetery was at the far end of town, but the walk was no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Despite the grim errand, it felt good to stretch his legs in the cool morning air. Park City was stirring to life, with shopkeepers setting up for the day and wagonloads of miners headed up the canyons.

With Emma so fragile, he wouldn’t plan on going to the mine today. Frank Helquist could manage things without him. For once, Logan had no desire to be there.

The elderly sexton answered the door dressed in a suit and tie. “I’d like to help you out,” he said, after Logan had explained what he needed. “But my wife and I were just leaving for Coalville. Her sister passed away and the funeral’s this morning at ten. If we don’t leave in the next few minutes we’ll be late.” He scratched his sparse gray beard. “Tell you what. If you don’t mind a little work, you can borrow a shovel from the shed out back and dig a little hole yourself. You know how to find young Carter’s grave?”

Logan did. Emma had given him directions.

“Well, then, just go ahead,” the old man said. “Put the shovel back when you’re done. And
I’m right sorry about the baby. It’s always sad when little ones die.”

Logan thanked the man, chose a narrow-bladed shovel from the shed and walked across the road to the cemetery. Billy John’s grave was in the far corner, the charity section. Many of the graves here were unmarked, but Emma had salvaged a piece of scrap lumber and scratched his name, along with his birth and death dates, into the soft pine. After a few minutes of looking, Logan found it.

A withered little clutch of wild violets lay at the foot of the slab. Emma, ever devoted, would have placed them there, of course. He owed her a real headstone for the grave, Logan thought. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would speak to the sexton about it.

He studied the lay of the grave. The coffin would be six feet down. Burying the box directly above it should be no problem. Decision made, he plunged the shovel into the ground. the dirt was still soft. In a matter of minutes he had a hole nearly three feet deep. Smoothing out the bottom and cushioning it with grass, he laid the box inside, placed a flat stone on top and began covering it with earth. Emma would come here to mourn. To her, this would be a sacred spot.

“Burying treasure, Devereaux?” The mocking voice startled him. Glancing up he saw a familiar figure leaning against the fence, wearing a checkered coat, a bowler hat and an impudent grin.

Tightening his jaw, Logan willed himself to ignore the man. Lose control now, and he might not be able to keep from beating Hector Armitage to death with his bare fists.

“That’s Billy John Carter’s grave isn’t it? I’d give a pretty penny to know what you just put in that hole. Does your wife know what you’re up to?” Armitage’s grin had widened to a leer.

Logan’s knuckles whitened around the shovel. He knew better than to mention the private tragedy of the baby. The scandal-hungry reporter would spread the story all over town. “Get out of here, Armitage,” he snarled. “Don’t you ever come near my wife again.”

A four-foot wire fence separated the two men. Emboldened by its protection, Armitage stood his ground. “Maybe you need to tell your wife to stay away from me. Did she tell you she invited me to tea the other day, with a very interesting proposition?”

“I know all about it, you little muckraker. Your lunatic scheme could have gotten her killed!”

“My lunatic scheme? It was her idea. She
asked
for my help. I must say she looked right fetching in those overalls. Something about a pretty lady in pants makes a fellow sit up and take notice, if you get my drift.”

“Damn you to hell, Armitage!” Logan wasn’t carrying a firearm, but he had the shovel. It was all he could do to keep from charging the fence and smashing it into the reporter’s face.

Armitage grinned. The man was goading him, Logan knew. A physical attack on his part would bring a charge of assault and a jail sentence. Armitage would like nothing better.

But what really held Logan back was the fear that once he started pounding on the little bastard, he wouldn’t be able to stop. More blood on his hands was the last thing he wanted.

“What’s really in that grave, Devereaux? I could dig it up and look, you know.”

Something in Logan snapped. Jamming the shovel blade into the earth, he strode to the fence, seized the little man by his lapels and yanked him off his feet. Dragging him straight up, he brought the freckled face within an inch of his own. Genuine fear flashed behind the thick spectacles.

“Touch that grave, and I’ll know it was you,” Logan growled. “I’ll hunt you down, and when
I’m through, your own mother won’t recognize your ugly face. Understand?”

When Armitage nodded, Logan let him go. Armitage staggered, then righted himself and backed away from the fence. “I’ve got power, Devereaux,” he spat. “More power than a two-bit gambler like you can imagine. You’ll see!” Straightening his glasses on his nose, he fixed Logan with a glare. “Every man has secrets. Whatever yours are I’ll find them, and when I do, I’ll crucify you.”

He turned and stalked back up the street. Logan watched him go, a knot of tension balling in his stomach. The little bastard was right about one thing—his power was very real. As a newspaperman he’d have more than his share of connections. Would those connections reach all the way to New Orleans?

But why worry? New Orleans was another world, and he was another man there, with another name. Christián Girard had died in the swamp, in a pool of black quicksand where no one would find his body. Only his parents and his grandmother, who’d told him where to go, had known the truth, and he’d had no contact with them in seven years.

Dismissing his fears, Logan plucked a fistful of wild pinks and arranged them on the tiny grave. He made other subtle markings, as well,
so he’d know later if the ground had been disturbed. But he doubted that Armitage would come back to snoop. The man was no fool, and they wouldn’t be able to hide the truth about Emma’s condition for long. When he gave it some thought, he would guess what was buried there.

After returning the shovel, he walked back up Main Street. Clouds were creeping over the Wasatch peaks, casting a gray net to capture the morning sun. The air seethed with the portent of a coming storm. Logan felt the weight of every step. His eyes stung. His temples ached. The sleepless night was catching up with him. If Emma was feeling better when he got home, maybe he’d stretch out alongside her for an hour’s nap.

A warning growl of thunder whispered over the peaks. The shoppers on Main Street quickened their steps, rushing to finish their errands before the storm moved in. On the boardwalk in front of the
Record
, a towheaded boy was selling copies of the morning paper. Logan detoured around him, intent only on getting home. Then he saw the headline.

Emma O’Toole Invades Silver Mine

Biting back a groan, Logan reached into his pocket for change. Hector Armitage was
probably watching him from behind the glass, chortling with laughter. Damn the little weasel. What had possessed Emma to trust him?

Tucking the folded paper under his arm, Logan strode up the street and crossed the Chinese bridge to Rossie Hill. He would read the story when he got home. Then he could decide whether Emma was up to seeing it.

From the lower road, he could look up and see his house. A man on the front porch was pacing anxiously, pausing to peer toward town. Logan recognized Frank Helquist.

Catching sight of Logan, Helquist came pounding down the hill. “You need to get to the mine,” he panted. “I’ve got horses waiting behind the house.”

Logan’s heart dropped. “What is it? An accident?”

“No, damn it. I told you there’d be hell to pay for that stunt your wife pulled. The miners are at the shaft house, both shifts, refusing to work. Not a one of them’s going down in the cage.”

“What the devil—?”

“Don’t you get it, Devereaux? The bastards are on strike!”

Emma had rested during the dawn hours, but her ordeal was far from over. The shock of
her baby’s loss had congealed into a numbness as deep as the bottom of a mine. During her labor, she’d pleaded with heaven to stop what was happening. But her prayers had gone unheard. Her little girl, Billy John’s child, would never have a life, never laugh or dance, never grow up to marry and have children of her own. She was gone forever, as if she’d never existed.

Why had she lost her baby? That question would torment Emma forever. Was it because she’d gone down in the mine? Could it have been the fall, the strain of shoveling ore, maybe even her own fear? Or would it have happened anyway? She would never know the answer, but she would never stop wondering.

Other women Emma knew had miscarried and soldiered on as if nothing had happened. Only now could she understand their pain. And only now could she appreciate their strength—especially since she was struggling to find her own.