The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (14 page)

The midwife, a cheerless but efficient woman, had washed her face, brushed her hair and helped her into a clean nightgown. Emma’s headache had eased, as had her mental confusion. But she still felt waves of dizziness when she tried to stand. All things considered, it seemed wise to spend a few more hours in bed.

She was propped against the pillows, forcing down a few bites of biscuit, when she heard the front door open. The footsteps crossing the parlor were Logan’s. Their hurried cadence told her something was wrong.

“I have to get to the mine.” He was speaking to the midwife in the kitchen. “Can you stay longer, say, till this afternoon?”

“Not another minute, I’m afraid. There’s a woman who needs me out in Lake Flat. I’ve just been waiting for you to get home.”

An explosion of breath told Emma how frayed he must be. She raised her voice. “Logan!”

He appeared in the bedroom doorway, red-eyed from lack of sleep. “What is it, Emma? Are you all right?”

“Much better,” she lied. “Don’t worry about leaving me. I’ll be fine.”

His black brows met in a scowl. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “I heard you say something about the mine. What’s happening?”

“Nothing to concern you. Helquist is waiting outside with horses. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just go.”

Wrapped in melancholy, Emma lay alone
after Logan and the midwife had left. The house was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the parlor clock and the wind whistling under the eaves of the house. A storm was blowing in, rumbling closer by the minute.

She imagined Logan on the muddy road, wind whipping the rain against his face. He’d looked so exhausted this morning. When had he last slept?

During her pains he’d been there, gripping her hands and bringing her water until the midwife arrived. Even then he’d stayed close, hovering in the shadows or sitting by the bed until the very last, when the woman had ordered him out of the room and closed the door. This morning, before she was even awake, he’d gone to bury the baby girl with her father. There’d been no need to ask if he’d done the task. She’d known Logan would keep his word.

The child wasn’t even his. But he’d behaved with a husband’s concern and a father’s tenderness. All this after what she’d done to him. He was a better man than she deserved. It would serve her right if he left her—and he probably would.

But that didn’t mean she could abandon her purpose. Not punishing Logan, but exposing the dangerous conditions in the mines and the
greed of the men who owned them, including her own husband. Logan would be incensed. But she had to finish what she’d started. Otherwise, everything she’d done would be wasted.

As soon as she was strong enough she’d arrange another meeting with Hector Armitage to discuss the news article. She’d done her part. Now it was up to the reporter to do his.

Lightning drowned the room in a flash of blue. Thunder cracked as the storm broke over the town. Rain lashed the roof, streaming in torrents off the eaves. From the kitchen, a rhythmic banging sound mingled with the storm. Emma puzzled a moment before recalling that the midwife had opened a window above the counter. If no one had closed it, rain could be blowing into the kitchen, soaking everything in sight.

Easing her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up. Her vision swam, but only for a few seconds. When the dizziness had passed, she rose shakily and made her way toward the kitchen.

The window was indeed open. Wind was banging the sash against the frame—the cause of the knocking sound she’d heard. Rain had pooled on the counter and dripped onto the floor. Taking care not to slip, Emma reached the window, fastened the latch and sagged
against the counter to catch her breath. She was still feeling light-headed. But maybe if she sat down for a few minutes, she’d be strong enough to get a towel and sop up the water.

She turned toward the table to pull out a chair. That was when she saw the freshly folded newspaper lying on the tablecloth. Logan must have picked it up on his way home.

Sinking onto the chair she reached for the paper. Her hands trembled as she unfolded it to the front page and read the headline.

Emma O’Toole Invades Silver Mine

Her stomach clenched. This had to be Hector Armitage’s work. But why hadn’t he waited to get the full story from her? Had he already done the interviews?

With a growing sense of dread, she began to read.

Emma seized the front page, tore it loose and crumpled it into a tattered wad. Logan
was right. Armitage had used her. He’d never planned to do the interviews or to write about conditions in the mines. All the little weasel had wanted was a story he could sell—and she’d played right into his slimy hands.

Her fist struck the table, bruising her knuckles. What a fool she’d been! She’d discovered a worthy cause and used it to justify hurting her husband. To that end, she’d risked her marriage and the life of her precious child. She still believed in the cause. But what she’d intended as a noble effort to raise awareness had been twisted and subverted into a bizarre stunt to increase her own sordid fame.

Emma pressed her hands to her face. Her body convulsed with shudders. After what she’d done, she didn’t even deserve her own wretched pity.

Emma was sitting up in bed when she heard Logan’s key in the lock. Too restless to sleep, she’d spent the past three hours mulling over her situation. Every question had led her to the same answer. No more lies. She would be brutally honest with her husband. And she would demand the same from him.

The floor creaked with his weary tread. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, sagging
in his damp clothes. His face was drawn, his eyes lost in shadow. One hand held a paper sack. “Are you all right, Emma?” he asked.

No more looking away, she’d vowed. Emma met his gaze. “Not yet. But I will be, in time.”

“Are you hungry?” His tone was gentle but his eyes were cold. “I bought some fresh Cornish pies from a woman in town.”

“Later. Right now you need to get out of those wet clothes.”

Muttering something she couldn’t make out, he set the sack on a side table, shed his rain-soaked jacket and began to undress. His chilled fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons. Emma resisted the urge to get out of bed and help him. Logan wouldn’t want her on her feet. And he certainly wouldn’t want her near him.

“What was happening at the mine?” she asked.

“About what you’d think.” He stripped off the damp shirt and tossed it into the hall with the jacket. “The men are refusing to work. They won’t go into a mine where a woman has been. Evil spirits or some sort of mumbo jumbo. But you already knew that would happen, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve been around miners for years—I know their superstitions.”

“You knew, and you did it, anyway?”

“I didn’t plan on being caught.”

“Damn it, Emma—” He blocked the rest of the words as he kicked off his boots and unhooked his belt. His trousers dropped to the floor. Stripping off his singlet and drawers, he kicked the damp clothes out of the way and reached for his thick flannel robe, which hung on the back of the door. His body was pale with cold.

“I gave them the day off with pay,” he said, knotting the robe. “Tomorrow Father Brendan will come to the mine, sprinkle holy water down the shaft and say a few Hail Marys to make the mine ‘safe’ again. Once the men are back to work, Saint Mary’s Church will get a handsome donation toward their new altar. So everybody’s happy.”

His last words dripped sarcasm. Emma willed herself not to shrink from his condemning gaze. She’d meant to apologize, but if she tried now, he would only fling the words back in her face.

“I read Armitage’s news story,” she said.

He sank onto the chair beside the bed. “I read it, too. There was a paper at the mine.”

“You were right, Logan. He used me for his own ends. I was a fool.”

“I only wish you’d told me, Emma. I would’ve warned you away from him.”

“I should’ve known better myself. But it’s too late to change that now.”

He slumped forward in the chair, looking impossibly weary. “Armitage isn’t finished with us. There’ll be more to come.”

“I can just imagine. The strike, the priest…” Her heart sank. “Would Armitage know about losing the baby?”

“He showed up while I was at the cemetery. It won’t take him long to figure it out.” Logan muffled a cough.

“Then he’ll use that, too. Can’t we stop him somehow? Maybe sue him?”

“Unfortunately, the Constitution guarantees freedom of the press. As long as the little snot isn’t publishing out-and-out lies, there’s not much we can do. Unless…” His words trailed off.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“You could scoop him. Write your own story, Emma.”

Jolted, she stared at him. “How could I? I’m not a writer, Logan. I quit school after eighth grade to take care of my mother, and I’ve been working ever since.”

“Think about it. People would rather read a
personal account of what happened than that drivel Armitage writes.”

“But they’d laugh at me. I can’t even spell!”

“Things like spelling can be fixed. That’s what an editor does.” His raw-edged voice was growing steadily worse. Emma brushed his forehead with her palm. His skin was warm; no, it was hot.

“You’re talking nonsense,” she fussed, changing the subject. “I’d say you have a fever and it’s addled your mind. You belong in bed.”

She pulled back the covers on the far side. Logan didn’t argue. Still wearing his robe, he staggered around the bed and lowered himself to the mattress with his back toward her. When Emma pulled the covers over him, she could feel his body trembling.

He was asleep within minutes, his breathing rough and labored. Emma sat for a time, her eyes tracing his profile and the pale scar that marred his cheek. This trouble, too, was her doing. If she hadn’t ventured down in the mine, the workers wouldn’t have gone on strike. Logan could’ve stayed home and rested instead of chilling his exhausted body in the storm.

Outside, the rain had dwindled to a steady patter. Logan shivered in his sleep. Emma slid
down into the bed and curled against him, cradling him in her arms.

Whatever trust had existed between them, her actions had shattered it. He might stay. He might tolerate her. But the tenderness that had sweetened her life would be gone. she had ruined everything.

What a miserable time to realize that she loved him.

E
mma marched past the open door of the saloon, her shopping basket on her arm and her straw chapeau perched defiantly on her head. Her ears caught every word of the odious ballad, but she willed herself to pay no attention. Keep your chin up and brazen it out—that was the only way. Logan had taught her well.

Over the past two weeks, the ballad had taken on a life of its own. Armitage wasn’t the only one adding new verses. Some versions
weren’t fit for a lady’s ears. Emma had been tempted to stay home until the craze passed. But since the loss of her baby the house had become a prison of silence. There were times when she had to get out. This morning was one of those times.

Logan had dragged himself out of his sickbed to attend the blessing of the mine. Now that he was fully recovered, he spent most of his days at work. More and more often now, he came home late, his clothes and hair reeking of tobacco smoke. Emma knew he was back at the gambling tables. But what could she say when her own behavior had driven him there?

Last night she’d lain awake until after midnight, listening for the sound of his key in the lock. When he’d finally come in, she’d willed herself to pretend sleep. But the urge to speak had been too much for her. As he was stripping off his shirt, she’d opened her eyes and sat up in bed.

“Did you win?” she’d asked him.

His mouth had twitched in a flicker of a smile. “Broke even,” he said. “Doc was there. He sends his regards.”

“It’s not really about winning, is it? It’s about the game. It’s about having someplace to go and something to do, away from here.”

He’d exhaled wearily. “It’s late, Emma. If you want to have this conversation, fine. But let’s do it tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say.” She’d turned over and closed her eyes, knowing that tomorrow he would wake up early and be out the door.

Now it was tomorrow, and she’d been right. She’d awakened to the scent of the coffee he’d made and the silence of an empty house—again. It wasn’t that Logan was cruel. He was as generous as always, and he never spoke harshly to her. But it was as if he’d given up all pretense that their marriage was anything more than an arrangement.

Two matrons approaching on the boardwalk moved aside to let her by. She felt their eyes on her and heard their whispers as she passed. By now Emma was used to such encounters. Park City was a small town. No woman who valued her reputation would risk being her friend. Someday she might have the means to move away from here, maybe even change her name. For now, all she could do was pretend she didn’t care.

In the general store, she filled her basket with eggs, bacon, coffee, oatmeal and a small jar of molasses. The woman at the counter was
distant but courteous. Emma might be a pariah, but her money was as good as anybody else’s.

Stepping out onto the boardwalk, she glimpsed a familiar figure in a checkered coat moving toward her. Emma stifled a groan. She hadn’t set eyes on Hector Armitage since the morning he’d brought her to the mine. Her first impulse was to turn around and go back inside the store. But it appeared the reporter had spotted her. She wasn’t about to turn tail and run away.

His grin broadened as he came closer. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Devereaux. I was right sorry to hear about the loss of your baby.”

“So you said when you told the whole town about it. When are you going to learn that my personal life is none of your business?”

Armitage chuckled. “When are you going to learn that everything about your personal life
is
my business? You’ve made my reputation all over the country, dear lady, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

A blind rage flashed through Emma. She wanted to fling herself at the man, scratching and kicking and flailing with her fists. But they were in a public place and people were watching.

“You never meant to help me, did you?” she
demanded. “All you wanted was a story you could sell.”

He shrugged. “I went with what I had. You had an idea for one story—I had an idea for a better one.”

“I gave you more than you used. You knew I was trying to help the miners and you didn’t say anything about it.”

Armitage shook his head. “You really don’t understand how I work, do you, Emma? It’s not my job to take up bleeding heart causes. It’s my job to sell papers. And to that end, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“You’ll do whatever it takes to line your own pockets. And that includes deception and outright lies!”

His expression seemed to freeze. His gaze hardened behind his spectacles. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Well, my dear,” he said, “it seems we understand each other after all.”

With that he tipped his bowler, turned away and ambled back down the boardwalk.

Emma’s knees had gone watery. She braced her legs to keep them from buckling beneath her. She’d always known Hector Armitage was ambitious. But what she’d glimpsed in that one unguarded instant was enough to strike fear
into her heart. The man wasn’t just unpleasant. He was evil.

He could also be dangerous, she reminded herself as she walked back toward the Chinese bridge. But she’d had enough of letting the slimy reporter ruin her life. It was time she stood up to him.

Maybe, after all, it was time to write her own story.

Logan got the news that afternoon, when Frank Helquist came up in the cage, cursing like a sailor. “There’s water down there,” the foreman said. “Not too much yet, but it’s seeping into the lower shaft. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It isn’t good.”

“How long will the men be safe?” Logan asked.

“God only knows. For now, they should be all right. But with this damned mountain snowmelt, it’s bound to get worse. When it does, you’ll have to move them out of there. After that, you’ve got choices.” Helquist paused to fish a cheroot from his vest pocket, thrust it between his lips and light it with a match. “Easiest and cheapest would be to work higher, off the same shaft. Aside from that, you can pay for
a pump and a drainage tunnel, you can start a new shaft, or you can give up and pack it in.”

Logan had known for some time this might happen. But none of the options were good. Installing a pump or sinking a new shaft would take prodigious amounts of money he didn’t have. And samples taken from the upper part of the present shaft had been unpromising. The silver-rich ore was lower down, where the men were working now, in a tunnel doomed to flood with underground water.

“Take me down there,” he said. “I want to see it for myself.”

As the cage creaked down the shaft, Logan didn’t have to see the water. He could smell it rising from below, a dank, wet odor that made his spine prickle. Helquist tossed his cheroot into the darkness. The burning dot slowly vanished, its fall ending in a faint splash.

Logan muttered a curse.

The cage stopped at the entrance to the tunnel. the dim glow of candles and the shriek of the pneumatic drill guided Logan and his foreman along the passage. No matter how many times he came down here, Logan would always be astonished by the heat. Sweat trickled beneath his clothes as he followed Helquist along
the narrow tracks, the two big men stooping beneath the tunnel’s low-cut ceiling.

A drop of cool wetness struck the back of his neck. Startled, he glanced up. The light in the tunnel was too dim for Logan to make out any details, but something told him not to ignore what he’d noticed.

Another droplet plopped against his cheek and trailed down his jaw. Was it just condensation, caused by the humid air against the cool rock? Logan’s hand reached up to feel what his eyes couldn’t see. Condensation would be spread over the rock’s entire surface. But most of the rock was dry. The trickle of water was oozing through a needle-thin crack.

Years of living in the shadows had taught Logan to trust his instincts. Right now those instincts were screaming. “Helquist!” he shouted above the whine of the drill. “Get the men out of here! Now!”

Turning back, the foreman realized what was happening. “Get to the cage, Devereaux!” he yelled.

But Logan plunged ahead, pushing past Helquist, toward the wider area where the miners were working. As he burst into the light the drilling stopped. “Go!” he shouted. “Leave everything! Run!”

Always alert to trouble, the miners didn’t have to be told twice. They poured into the narrow part of the tunnel, sweeping Helquist along with them. Eleven men had reported for work that morning. The foreman would make twelve—as many as could be crammed into the cage at one time.

Logan had never considered himself any kind of hero. But he hung back in the shadows until he was sure the cage was full. He could hear Helquist swearing at the men, ordering them to let him out, but evidently someone had rung the bell that signaled the hoist operator, because the cage was rising.

As it disappeared up the shaft, Logan walked to the tunnel entrance to wait. He felt safe enough. The cage would be back for him in a few minutes. All the same, he was glad he’d sent his men up first. He wouldn’t have wanted to leave any one of them down here alone.

Behind him, he could hear the sound of dripping water. Was the crack already growing? Was the rock about to break loose, releasing a gush that would blast through the tunnel and sweep him into the shaft? The tunnel’s shadowed, stifling atmosphere was so gloomy and claustrophobic that any sort of disaster seemed possible. Hellfire, no wonder miners were so
superstitious. Spending ten hours a day in a place like this would make any man believe in evil spirits and Tommyknockers.

Would the men blame Emma for the water in the mine? True, the priest had blessed the shaft, but fear and superstition couldn’t be washed away by a few drops of holy water.

If only he could get her away from here, to a place where they could settle into some kind of normal life, maybe even start a family. But after today, starting over would be easier said than done.

Logan had felt confident that he could sell the mine whenever he wanted to leave. But who’d buy it now, with water flooding the shaft? As he saw it, he had two options. He could raise more money and sink it into what might be a useless venture, or he could walk away with nothing to show for himself.

And if he walked away, what would happen with Emma? How could he support her without going back to his old life? Would she even want to stay with him, especially if he came clean about his past?

Strain had weighed between them since the loss of the baby. Emma seemed to bristle with silent hostility every time he walked into the house. He ached with wanting her. But he didn’t
know how to make things right. He didn’t know how to make her love him.

And now, this calamity.

Hair had risen on the back of Logan’s neck. His pulse was a pounding gallop. Could he hear water rushing behind the rock or was it only his imagination? He cursed under his breath. A man could go crazy down here in the dark.

From somewhere above, he heard the creak of the hoist. Glancing up, he saw the cage moving down the shaft. Helquist stood in the lower section, holding a lantern. Light ghost-danced off the walls of the shaft. Sweating in the tunnel entrance, Logan waited.

The floor of the cage was an arm’s length out of reach when a tremor passed under his boots. The earth groaned as a slab of rock sheared away from the ceiling behind him. Water exploded in its wake, rushing in a solid wall along the tunnel.

He sprang for the cage, hands catching the wood along the bottom edge. His fingers clawed for purchase on the splintery surface. He felt himself slipping. Then Helquist’s big hands seized his wrists. The cage swayed crazily as the foreman heaved him upward. One knee inched over the edge, then the other. Logan staggered to his feet, safe.

The lantern had fallen down the shaft. In the blackness below the cage, Logan could hear the water pouring out of the tunnel. At least he was alive. But he was more than likely ruined. He would deal with that reality later. Right now all he wanted was to go straight home and hold his wife in his arms.

But that, he knew, wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

By the time Logan was free to leave the mine it was evening. He’d come up the shaft to a scene of pandemonium, with frightened workers demanding their pay. It had taken hours to assess the damage, shut down and secure the machinery, lock the storage sheds, update the books and send Helquist to the bank for cash. Until he could get a geologist to assess the site, the Constellation Mine was closed. For all he knew, it would be closed for good.

How could he face Emma? What was he going to tell her?

He rode home in the gathering twilight, so weary he could barely stay in the saddle. From the next canyon, the pounding throb of the Ontario stamp mill drowned out the songs of evening birds. Damnation, how he hated that sound.

At the canyon’s mouth he paused to look down Main Street. Pools of light spilled out of the saloons. The chance to lose himself in a card game, maybe win a little money, beckoned like the call of a siren. But not tonight, he resolved. He’d probably fall asleep at the table. And he needed to get home to his wife.

Leaving the horse at the livery stable, he crossed the Chinese bridge and trudged up the hill toward home. Lamplight glowed through lace curtains as he mounted the porch, unlocked the front door and stepped into the parlor.

Dressed in her nightgown and her light cotton wrapper, Emma sat at the kitchen table. She was bent over a pad of notepaper, her face a study in concentration. As Logan closed the front door, she glanced up. Her pencil clattered to the table.

“Oh—sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. There’s beef stew warming on the stove. I’ll get you some.”

“Don’t bother, I can get it myself.” Logan shed his jacket and ambled into the kitchen. “What are you doing, Emma?”

A flush of color crept into her cheeks. There was more life in her eyes than Logan had seen
since the loss of her baby. Maybe his bad news could wait.