“Hud made sure you all got home.”
“I thought he looked familiar.”
He gave her a smile, something fragile in it, and drew in a breath. He reminded her of Oliver, the way he looked at her, such earnestness in his eyes. “I bet you look real pretty in a dress.”
She stilled.
“Sorry, I’ve just been thinking that ever since that day. That’d you’d look pretty in a dress.”
She didn’t know why, but she felt the complement, husky and unrefined as it was, all the way to her toes. Yes, long ago she had looked pretty—very pretty—in a dress. But she’d left those days behind, and a woman on her own didn’t survive the West with a trunk full of dresses, in need of assistance from a maid and a footman.
He held her eyes a long moment then smiled as if he’d accomplished a sort of victory, and wandered over to a stack of papers. “So you’re going to write about today’s shenanigans?”
“Seems newsworthy. Especially with the fact that Daughtry Hoyt is back in town. You want to tell me what happened between you two?”
“What makes you think anything—”
“Please. I’m a reporter, and I know what I’ve heard—that his father sent him away after he caused an accident at the mine. But I don’t deal in rumors. I want the truth. And I saw the way you were looking at him as you sang. What do you know, Abel? Now, you have a choice—I can ask Ruby, or you can tell me in your own words.”
He closed the paper. Turned and braced himself against the bar. Considered her. Finally, “Daughtry Hoyt murdered my brother.”
She studied him for guile, but he met her gaze with his own, dark and solid.
“How?”
A shadow crossed his eyes, a ghost from the past, perhaps. She’d seen it before, in Hud’s eyes before he told her a story, as he considered which half of the truth to tell her. For a moment, she thought Abel would turn away, even toss out a full-out lie—she’d confirm it later with Ruby anyway. But she held his gaze, hoped for honesty.
He swallowed. “You’ve lived here long enough to have heard of the Silverthread mine explosion, right?”
“Killed thirty-eight miners. It happened about three years before I got here. You’re telling me he was involved in the killing of thirty-eight miners?”
“I was fourteen. And just starting work. They put me on my brother’s shift so he could help me. We were trammers, along with Daughtry.”
“Daughtry worked in the mine?”
“His old man started out as a miner—thought it might do his son good to get his fingers dirty. He’d only been around for a few weeks. He was working with Orrin and me, transporting a couple boxes of powder. Daughtry and Orrin took a break, and Daughtry was smoking a cigarette when the shift boss came up. He didn’t want to get caught, so he flicked his cigarette away. It must have landed in the powder box in the car, and smoldered there.
“Later, Daughtry and I left to go change his carbide because the idiot didn’t check his supply before he went down, and it went out. While we were gone, the box exploded. The blast caved in the drift, trapping Orrin and the rest of our crew. We dug for hours, but by the time we got to them, they had all died.”
She had never been inside a mine—the thought of working so far under the crust of earth could turn her cold—but she saw everything: the dank walls glistening with tears of water, the suffocating heat, the tremor of the earth as it convulsed.
The desperation of Abel as he clawed away the rock, desperate to free his brother.
“I’m so sorry.”
Abel leaned up from the bar, walked over to the stove, warming his hands there. “I’ll never forgive him. Daughtry killed thirty-eight men. It wasn’t long after that when his father sent him away. I can’t believe he had the courage to return.”
I’ve come back to fix— Daughtry’s voice slunk back to her, the tremor in it. “What if he’s come back to make things right?”
Abel glanced at her then, nothing of mercy in his expression. “Can he bring me back my brother? Or Ruby’s father? Or the sons and brothers and husbands who left families behind?”
Ruby’s father had been among the thirty-eight dead?
“How old was your brother?”
“Sixteen, same as Daughtry.”
“I’m so sorry, Abel.”
He grabbed the chair, again straddled it. “I’m sorry you got hurt in our assembly today.”
“You mean brawl?”
“Don’t you see, that’s what we have to do to get them to take us seriously? The muckety-mucks that control the Silverthread need to understand that we’re not going to let them cut our wages or work us to our deaths. But we gotta organize, be one unit, if we hope to shut them down.”
She stared at him, those wide hands he used to gesture with, his earnest eyes. “But if you shut them down, you won’t have a job.”
He considered her a long moment. “You clearly don’t understand the purpose of a strike. But I sure would like to see you in a dress.” He gave her a smile, something that might be devastating to any other woman. Indeed, he had a mischief in his eyes that made her smile as he lowered his voice, turned it sweet. “Would you come to the miners’ dance with me?”
A date? Oh… “Abel, I—”
“I promise to be on my best behavior, really. No fighting.” He held up his hands in surrender.
She smiled, shook her head. “I don’t have a dress, Abel.” At least not one she could wear to a miners’ ball.
But what if Abel and his fellow miners were planning a strike? She could find out about it before the Butte Press got the story.
Scoop them.
“But I think Ruby might have a dress I can borrow.”
A smile slid up his face. “That’ll work.”
“But only if I get to come to one of your union meetings.”
His smile fell. “I don’t think so. They get kind of rough, and—”
“I’m not afraid of getting hurt.”
His eyes narrowed. “Keep your notebook at home?”
“No promises. But I do promise to be fair.”
He got up. “Fair. That depends on your perspective. But, Miss Stewart, I do want to see you in a dress at that dance, so it’s a deal.”
* * * * *
Archie Hoyt had chosen the best piece of real estate for his home when he’d built the three-story house with the white-painted siding, the front porch, the gable roof with the peek-a-boo window. It overlooked Willow Creek, and beyond that, the lacy edge of white-capped mountains. A working ranch. Esme didn’t spot the vast herds of angus ranging over the land—she guessed they might still be in winter pastures. Hoyt did have one of the prettiest red barns she’d ever seen, situated away from the house and back-dropped by the crisp blue Montana sky. She reined in her mare, Dixie, and drew in the smells of spring, the mountain grass stirred by the wind, the hint of cattle embedded in the land, the sting of the air on her ears.
Soon, the meadowlark would call, tumbleweeds chased by the wind. She felt that sometimes, chased by the wind. Or perhaps, she was chasing it. But Daughtry’s words, and Abel’s tale, had driven her out to the Hoyt homestead, despite the doctor’s warning, in search of answers. Or, at least, a story.
She had seen Archie Hoyt, owner of the Silverthread Mines—with its three shafts, the Pipe, the new Neck, and the now closed Horn—at city council meetings and courthouse hearings. She had even interviewed him when he’d showed up at the opening of the new mineshaft a year ago. He’d seemed tired, then. Thin, with a narrow face, a shock of whitened hair, and a beard that obscured most of his sallow face, he bore a scooped-out appearance. His second wife had died only a year prior, in childbirth, along with their child. To her knowledge, Daughtry, the son of his first wife, Jane Morninglory, was his only descendant.
The only one to whom he might will the Silverthread Mining operation.
She hauled in a couple of swift breaths before she eased off Dixie, the old mare so patient with her it seemed she unde
rstood Esme’s wounded ankle. Pausing to absorb the pain, she took a breath and hobbled up the front steps then pressed the bell.
She heard the sound of it deep inside the house, then footsteps, and the door opened to a housekeeper, a woman who might have scared her years ago with her dark eyes, her black hair in a long braid. But the dime novels did no justice to the character of the Native Americans she had met in the flesh. “Good afternoon, Dawn. Is Mr. Hoyt in?”
“He’s napping, but I’ll tell him you stopped by.” Back in New York, Esme might have left a calling card. Dawn started to close the door.
“Is Daughtry here?”
“Charlie’s down at the barn.”
Charlie?
She took her time going down the stairs and onto the path, aware of the pockets of snow that still blackened the ground. She eased open the barn door, the musty redolence of hay escaping. Inside, shadow darkened the massive room. She saw no one. “Hello?” She stepped inside, her boot, so tight she had barely managed it on, now scraping on the dirt floor. “Daughtry Hoyt?”
Back in New York, her father kept a stable of horses, a shiny row of thoroughbreds in their spic-and-span stalls, waiting to be hitched to a landau or brougham, ready to ferry her and her sister through the park, or to church.
Only a few horses remained in this stable—a mare nursing a foal, a working horse flicking its giant tail against the stall, an appaloosa chewing hay. At the end, a farrier sat, mucking out mud from the hooves of a beautiful black Arabian.
“Do you know where I could find Daughtry Hoyt?”
He looked up. Even in the shadows, she recognized that same lean, aristocratic face, the ebony hair, the keen expression of confident interest. “No Daughtry here,” he said. “But my name’s Charlie.” He let down the horse’s hoof and grabbed a towel, wiping his hands. “And you’re the lady in the middle of a nasty fight this morning. Esme Stewart, is it? Newspaperwoman?”
The afternoon sun shafted through the high windows and he stepped into a blade of light. Oh, he was dangerously handsome. He had dark eyes, a smile that curved up to a perfect divot in his cheek, and sculpted shoulders that suggested he knew how to sail, or row. Tall and trim, yes, she could see him in a waistcoat, tails, a gray ascot, white gloves, and a top hat, and he wouldn’t look for a moment out of place.
She stepped away from his outstretched hand, seeing, for a moment, Foster.
“I’m sorry. Of course, I should wash up.” He withdrew his hand. “I suppose you came out to interview the prodigal son of Archie Hoyt?” He said it with a wry smile, something of pain in his voice.
“People want to know why you came back.”
He shut the stall then turned and started out of the barn.
“You said something at the assembly. Something about wanting to fix—”
“I was wrong.” He rounded on her, his eyes dark. “Some things can’t be fixed. And maybe prodigals can never go home.”
She stood frozen, his words digging through her unprotected places, finding soft soil.
He left her there and strode out ahead of her, across the shadowed terrain of the barn. She sprinted to catch up with him—
Her foot caught in a divot of ground and crumpled beneath her. “Oh!” She put out her hands, but landed hard, pain spiking up her leg. She drew in breath between her teeth, pulled her leg to herself, rocking.
Daughtry crouched before her. “What happened?”
“I—someone hit me in the fight today and I turned my ankle. I think I just injured it further.”
His face contorted in a sympathy show of pain. “May I carry you to the house?”
The courtesy of his request—the fact that he hadn’t simply swooped her up—resonated inside her. She found herself nodding.
He swept her up without a pause, as if she might fit perfectly into his embrace. Nudging open the door, he brought her out of the barn into the brisk sunlight. She groaned at the mud caking her arms, her legs.
“I’ll have Dawn draw you a bath, find you a change of clothes. Although, you might find my attire a bit…enveloping.”
“I can ride back to town—”
“Of course you can. But should you?” He smiled down at her, his elegant brow raised.
Opening the door, he stood in the hallway. She had loved this home the first time she saw it—the grand two-story entryway, with the polished oak floors, the scrolled and curved dark alder banister leading to the second floor. He carried her past the oval grand room with the green marble fireplace and up the stairs to the second story. Dawn appeared from the upper level, moving aside as he reached the landing.
“Would you please get Miss Stewart some ice? She’s been injured.”
He turned down the hall and nudged open a door. Inside the expansive room, a grand brass featherbed, a rolltop desk, and a deep mahogany two-door wardrobe conjured up memories. Everything, from the red damask coverlet on the bed to the green velvet drapes, all swept her back to Fifth Avenue. It smelled too, of dried rose petals, as if they might be lifted from the tiny rosebud wallpaper.
“This was my mother’s favorite room,” Daughtry said.
“It’s beautiful.”
He walked toward the bed.
“No, I’m filthy. And that’s French damask!”
He stared at her a second, curiosity flashing across his face, then set her down on the hard-backed desk chair. “Hold onto something, this might hurt,” he said as he knelt before her.
Taking a hold of her boot, he looked up at her. “And, for the record, I’m sorry.”
He took the boot off as gently as he could. Even so, she had to bite back a cry, her body trembling by the time he got it off. “You may have broken it.”
She wiped her cheeks, staring at the swollen mass. Whatever she’d done before, the fall in the barn made it worse. “Doc Sampson already said it was sprained.”
“A bad sprain. But Dawn will know what to do.” He stepped back as the woman came in with ice in a basin of cold water. She lowered Esme’s foot into it and Esme sucked back her breath.
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere for at least a couple of days, Miss Stewart,” Dawn said.
“Call me Esme.” She looked at Daughtry and closed her eyes as the ice worked its way into her bones.
Dawn picked up her other, booted, foot. “Leave us, Charlie. I’ll call you when she’s ready for guests.”
Indeed, she’d been transported back to a life of ease, right here in the wild hills of Montana.
Dawn drew her a bath, filled it with rose petals, and helped her clean up. Then she let her choose between a pair of Daughtry’s wool pants or a crimson brocade dress with creamy lace sleeves and a collared bodice, a gown she might have worn to a Vanderbilt dinner party.
Something inside her made her choose the dress.
She sat on the settee as Dawn did her hair—nothing fancy, like Bette would have done, but swept up with a pair of pearl combs. “Mr. Hoyt gave these to his second wife. I know he will enjoy having someone wear them again.”
Esme stared at her bare décolletage and imagined the pearl and diamond dog collar around her neck, the one tucked away in the safe at the Times. Someday, she might wear it again. When the prodigal felt ready to return.
“You’re beautiful, Miss Stewart,” Dawn said.
A knock came at the door. Dawn opened it, and Daughtry stood in the hallway, wearing a western brocade vest, a pair of pressed black woolen pants, a gold ascot at his neck. “I heard we had a guest for dinner,” he said, and something about his smile sent heat through her.
“Dawn suggested I stay.”
“I agree with Dawn.” He drew in a breath, a smile pushing at his mouth. “You look breathtaking.”
She ran her hands down the dress, allowed the compliment to sink through her, warm her in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
“My father said he’d join us at dinner.” He stepped inside the room. “May I?”
She frowned and he held out his arms.
Oh. She nodded.
He smelled spicy—bathed, yes, but with a hint of the woodland and alpine breeze, and she realized he was wearing an imported scent. He carried her with ease to the parlor and settled her on a crushed velvet divan. A fire coaxed warmth into the room and over the mantle hung an oil of a woman, Native American descent in her features.
“My mother. She was a half-breed, from the Crow tribe. My father married her when he was just a teenager, when he came out to pan for gold down in Virginia City. She died when I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry. Was this her dress?”
“Yes. My father had it made for her in Paris. Now that he had money, he wanted to turn her into one of those fancy New York Knickerbockers.”
Esme thought she recognized the handiwork of a Paris house.
He stood at the window, staring at the sun setting over the far white ridge. “We visited New York two years before she died. We took the train and I remember wondering how so many people could live in such a tiny place. The streets were muddy, the skies dark. But she loved the shops and the hotels. We took rides through Central Park and she bought so many dresses I thought we’d need another train car to haul them home. She simply ignored the expressions of those who questioned her presence, who made assumptions as to why she assumed the right of my father’s arm.”
His voice turned dark and he stopped, swallowed.
“One night, though, we took a carriage to the Metropolitan Opera. My father allowed me to join them, and we waited in our hotel lobby until my mother appeared. In just that dress.” He looked over at her, but he had only his mother in his eyes. “She was radiant. That night, she wasn’t the Crow wife of a miner from Montana. We were society. Footmen helped us into our rented landau. We took an opera box. And, we dined later at Delmonico’s.”
“It sounds glorious.” She remembered nights like that. Glorious might be the word she would have used back then if she weren’t intent on escaping matrimony.
His smile fell and he returned to her. “It certainly wasn’t Montana.”
“Is that why you moved there?”
He glanced at her, turned his back. “My father sent me away.”
Her gaze returned to the woman over the mantle. “She sounds like a lovely woman.”
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