“She was. She loved my father—would have done anything for him. I think that’s why she put up with all the scorn in New York City. All our money couldn’t buy her respectability.”
“New York can be a fickle city, caught up in appearances rather than substance.”
Her words turned him, and again he frowned at her. “What do you know of New York?”
Oh. She stared at her hands, debated her response. “I read the Chronicle, sometimes. The society page.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. But the truth swelled before her—what if he found out she descended from the Price family? The miners, Silver City considered her one of their own. But if anyone—especially Abel, found out she came from money, from power, from the elite set, he might not let her attend the union meeting.
She might lose her scoop.
Which meant she couldn’t tell anyone—not even Daughtry.
“You read the society page?” He gave her a wry smile. “I very much doubt that. What would you care of the society page, the frivolous party life of the rich and foolish?”
His words stung her, despite their accuracy, despite the fact that she herself had thought them, once.
“They’re not all rich and foolish—”
“Let’s see, shall we? I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared across the hallway and she stared at the sunset, the way the reds and oranges bled out over the vast horizon.
He returned, holding a copy of her father’s New York Chronicle. She folded her hands in her lap and refrained from leaping to grab it.
“Here’s a gem,” he said. “ ‘Mrs. Astor Hosts Glittering Ball to Ring in the New Year. All the fashionable of New York attended last night’s annual ball at Mrs. Astor’s residence at 842 Fifth Avenue. Everything was done to the most perfect taste. Large vases of American Beauty roses adorned the vestibule and the entrance hall and decorated the handsome ballroom, the grandest of all New York.’”
Esme tried not to the let the image fill her mind, but once there, the grandeur of Mrs. Astor’s ballroom revived her memory. The gilded walls, the lilt of the orchestra, the gold-embroidered ball gowns.
“‘It was nearly midnight when the guests arrived, following the opera The Magic Flute at the Metropolitan Opera. Mrs. Astor did not attend the event. After greeting her guests in the Louis Sieze drawing room, Mrs. Astor enjoyed Landers Orchestra playing from the ballroom. Supper was called at 1 A.M. The menu was as follows: Filet de Boeuf aux Champignons farcies, Pommes Surprise, Terrapin…’”
She could see the dinner before her, the small tables with cover for six or eight, the white-gloved attendants, the smells of sumptuous, rich meats and gravies. “That’s enough.”
“There’s more. Don’t forget the guest list. ‘After supper, the cotillion was danced. It was led by Mr. Foster Worth, dancing with Mrs. Orme Wilson. And Henry Lehr, dancing with Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt. Mrs. Astor’s gown was a trailed robe of dark velvet, trimmed in pointelle lace, garnished with her array of diamonds, tiara, stomacher, and necklace. Mrs. Foster Worth, with child, wore a white gauze robe embroidered with silver. Her ornaments were diamonds and rubies.’ And…” He put down the paper, waggled his eyes at her, and for the first time, she looked at him and saw the tease in his face. “ ‘Mrs. Rosamond Street wore a white mousseline gown over silk, trimmed with lace.’ ” He glanced at her again. “Simply riveting news. What is mousseline, anyway?”
“It’s a sauce, I believe. Or a fabric of fine film.”
Oops. He stared at her, one eyebrow high. “Interesting.”
“Can I see the paper, please?”
He handed it over and her eyes tracked to Jinx’s name. With child. A few years ago, she’d read an announcement of the birth of a son, Jonathon. This must be her second child then. She ran her finger down the guest list. “I see here the name Daughtry C. Hoyt.” She gave him a look. “Rich and foolish?”
“It’s the most fashionable party of the season,” he said, winking. “I do it for my mother, I think. They didn’t want an Indian among their elite sect. So, I join them with my secret.”
Indeed, if Mrs. Astor knew his genealogy, she might have his name blackened from the lists. “That you secured an invitation at all is something. I hear her parties are quite elite.”
“I’m friends with a number of politicians. And my friend Grayson Donahue asked me to escort his sister, Elise.”
“So, you didn’t suffer too poorly.” She closed the paper. “If you have a life in New York, then why did you return to Silver City?”
He sat down opposite her. “I’m not a fool. I saw you fall—tried to get to you, in fact, but I lost you in the crowd. Thankfully, I spotted Abel helping you to the newspaper.” He looked at his hands, now cleaned from the work in the barn. “I have no doubt he also filled you in on the past. And, the accident.”
A good newspaperwomen would ignore the pain in his gesture, despite his kindness to her and would go for the jugular. But she tempered her words. “He blames you.”
“I blame me. And every week I read the reports of accidents from the Anaconda and Amalgamated mines, not to mention the Silverthread, as reported in the Copper Valley Times.” He didn’t wink and she believed him. “And every single time, I feel responsible. Which is why I returned. I am hoping to convince my father to sell Silverthread.”
“You’re going to sell Silverthread?”
“I want to get out of the mining business. Erase the past.”
“But what about all those miners who need jobs?”
He got up, walked to the window. “They won’t be the responsibility of the Hoyt family.”
“But the Amalgamated is twice as dangerous. Butte is a town of sin—and Silver City is…you can’t take their livelihood away from the miners.”
He rounded on her. “Why? You heard Abel. He wants to take the livelihood from the Silverthread. We’re already overextended, and a strike could put us in debt, cause us to lose everything anyway. And then Anaconda could buy us for the smell of the Montana air.”
“I thought the Silverthread was flush?”
“My father only makes it seem that way with his benevolent gifts to the widows, the Christmas endowments to the miners’ children, the scholarships. But every bit of it comes from his investments. Silverthread hasn’t been profitable in three years. It might help if my father didn’t pay the Silverthread miners twenty-five cents more per day for their base pay than the Copper Kings of Butte, or if we produced more than one-tenth what the Amalgamated and Anaconda mines produce. Or, if we had a smelter of our own instead of shipping the ore out to Anaconda. But see, I could take the sale and invest it in the stock market. I’ve spent the last year keeping our stocks alive and preparing for our bankruptcy. I could move my father out to New York City and invest in celluloid film. Did you know they showed the first motion picture in New York, just before I left?”
She stared at him, seeing Abel and Ruby, Agnes without their homes. “What are you talking about? Celluloid film? What about the livelihood of your miners?”
“I can’t have thirty-eight miners’ deaths on my conscience anymore.”
She studied his face, the lines etched around his eyes. Yes, she knew what it felt like to live with regret. “If there were another way to save the mine, would you do it?”
“Mr. Hoyt, dinner is served.” A butler Esme hadn’t seen earlier appeared at the door, white gloves and all.
But Daughtry just stood there, considering her words. Finally, “I don’t know if I believe in second chances. Do you?”
Chapter 13
“Are you buried in Page Six?”
Esme looked up to Daughtry’s question. Back to the Chronicle, which she’d commandeered after dinner and stolen to the parlor for a thorough read-through. “Actually, no. I wanted to read the news.”
He came in, bent down, and stoked the fire. Funny, in that moment, he reminded her of her father, an old memory scurrying up of him finding her tucked into a book in his den. “I’m a
fraid it is old news. At least three months.”
“Old news from New York is recent news for Montana.” The lamplight flooded over the page onto her dress, glinting against the golden threads. She should take it off, escape this fantasy before it took root.
“Are you warm enough?” He sat down on the settee opposite her.
“Yes.” In fact, getting much warmer, with him sitting across from her, his dark eyes considering her.
“May I see your ankle? I promise not to look at anything else.”
Indeed, there went a blush. But she raised her hem enough for him to find her ankle. He took it into his wide hands, ran his thumbs lightly over the swelling. “It’s still quite injured. I fear you should stay here until it is recuperated.”
“Stay? Here? But what about—”
“Dawn is here, of course. And Francine—our cook. You won’t be abandoned to two crabby bachelors.”
“Your father is hardly crabby.”
He smiled at that. “He found you quite fetching. I am sorry he couldn’t eat with us.”
“How is he feeling?”
“Much better once we settled him back in his bed. He becomes overzealous, believes he can do more than he should, with his heart condition. But he wanted to meet the beauty in the house.”
Oh. She closed the paper, smoothed it on her lap. “I fear our meeting taxed him too greatly.”
Daughtry’s smile vanished. “He won’t be with us long. I wish I’d known sooner how serious his condition had become, but he only released Dawn to write to me a month ago. Perhaps he didn’t want me to relive the nightmares.”
Nightmares. She presumed from the accident.
He got up, moved her ankle to the settee. “You should keep it elevated.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“I grew up with a mother who knew everything. When she passed, it took us years to figure out how to live on our own. I should never have left. And, I could see immediately, that I should have returned much sooner. And not just for the mine, but for him. He missed me desperately. And I, him.”
“You two sound close.”
“As close as two grieving men can be, I suppose. I believe it was a relief for him when I moved away, however.”
The journalist inside her wanted to prod.
The former deb knew to offer a conciliatory silence.
“When I received Dawn’s letter, I feared I wouldn’t return before his passing. I couldn’t bear not to say good-bye, to have him go without hearing his final words to me.”
His quiet words, the urgency in them, pulsed inside her. She knew exactly his sentiments. Please, her father couldn’t pass away until she had the strength to return. Until she could personally bring her Copper Valley Times to the Chronicle’s door.
“Esme?” Oh. She’d been caught in time, seeing her father again—broken and distraught—as she walked out of the Chronicle Building. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about—”
“People you left behind?”
She drew herself up. “What do you mean by that?”
He sat on the divan, lifted a shoulder. “I remember hearing about your arrival in town. My father said you simply appeared one day, like a fresh wind. Bought the building and the paper with a couple of drop pearl earrings.”
He raised an eyebrow at that.
“They were a gift.”
“I didn’t assume otherwise.”
Oh, she had sounded too defensive. “I just needed a place to start over. To do things my way.”
“And you certainly have.”
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.
He held up a hand of surrender. “No offense intended. The Copper Valley Times is a solid newspaper. I have it sent to me every week.”
He did?
“I’m just saying that there is more to you than meets the eye, Esme, and if you would permit me, I’d like to find out what it might be.”
She didn’t let his words show on her face and instead found her society smile. But what if he did find out who she was? It might change the way the miners saw her, they might stop letting her into their lives, might see her as—how did Abel put it in his song—a greedy parasite?
No.
Still, the way he put it, softly, nudged under her skin. What might it be like to become Esme Price, debutante, courted again?
She closed the paper, rose to her foot, balancing herself on the arm of the divan. “I really shouldn’t stay.”
He stared at her. “Why not? Would it be so terrible to ask for help? To have someone take care of you?”
“I am perfectly capable of—”
“I know—taking care of yourself.”
He stood up and wrapped his hand around her waist.
“The sunrise is beautiful from the breakfast verandah.”
* * * * *
It frightened Esme how quickly she could become accustomed to luxury. Two days of pampering by Dawn as her ankle healed had revived all the memories of having Bette greet her with her morning tea and toast on a tray. Of being tucked into bed at night with a crackling fire in the hearth. Of proper dinners with white-gloved waiters to clear her plate. Of listening to music in the parlor after dinner.
She might be able to stay forever in the copper tub, steam rising from the surface like a Montana lake in the middle of winter.
Fine, she would admit it—she missed her Fifth Avenue life. Missed the sound of horses’ hooves upon the street, the golden lamplights spilling out into the night, the smell of Cook’s rich French concoctions rising from the basement. Missed her glorious clothes, the diamond tiara, the pearl chokers, the bowers of roses.
Her mother.
Her father.
Jinx. Especially Jinx. She’d poured over the entirety of Page Six of the Chronicle for any other mention of Foster and Jinx and finally resigned herself to her imagination. Jinx would have blossomed into a regal beauty on Foster’s arm, the mother of his child, and by now they would have built their own house, hosted their own parties. Jinx had inherited the world meant for Esme.
But Esme had inherited the rest. The pewter blue sky flowing over foothills and beyond the frosted mountains to the north. The frothy rivers, the pale pink bitterroot flower peeking from the earth, the tang of the pine in the air. She sat now astride her mare, following Daughtry across his land. He’d given her one of his boots to wear and one of his mother’s split riding skirts, something she’d read about but never worn. Indeed, if the set in New York knew she rode a horse like a man…
She’d inherited freedom, perhaps also.
“Are you cold?” Daughtry looked over at her. “We could stop, if you’d like.”
“It’s the end of April, and I’m dressed for a trip to Butte and back at the height of January. I’ll be fine.” He’d had Dawn dig out a worn buffalo jacket for the ride out to a remote section of their land. But his protectiveness didn’t seem condescending—rather, he seemed thoughtful. She didn’t expect a gentleman out on the frontier.
She urged her mare up behind his horse—he rode the glorious Arabian he’d shipped back to Montana. “Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something.” He glanced back, gave her a wink. “Something you don’t see in Silver City.” He paused. “Or New York.”
She met his gaze. He’d winked. He hadn’t asked—or suggested—anything about her interest in the social set of Mr. Astor’s 400 since that first night, confining their conversation over the past two days to Silver City, the newspaper, his father’s health, and the war of the Copper Kings for control of the mines in the region.
Perhaps he simply meant the wink as a friendly gesture.
She said nothing as they topped the ridge. He reached out, reined in her mount. “Shh.”
Below them, thirty or so giant shaggy-shouldered boulders lounged on the greening pasture, corralled on three sides by canyon walls. A soapy river blocked escape to the south. The animals, impressive even at this distance, wore horns and heavy beards, their mas
sive bodies twice the size of her mare. “Are those buffalo?”
She glanced at Daughtry, the way he rode easily in his stirrups, gloved hands leaning on his saddle horn, his reins loose, but firm in his grip. He looked like a Charlie—she remembered his comment in the barn, the name Dawn called him by. He too wore a buffalo jacket, dark, with a fur collar turned up against the wind, a buckskin cowboy hat, his hair curling from the back, and leather breeches with fringes that made him appear a working cowboy instead of a silver-spoon heir.
“My mother started the herd with just three we rescued. The Crow depended on the buffalo for their livelihood, and when they were hunted to near extinction, my mother hoped to help restore them to plenty. Her dream was to see them roaming the ranch like they did when she was a child. My father told her it was impossible—they were just too few, but she refused to believe it. She knew in her heart they could be rebuilt. She would ride down here, especially after calving, and shoot the cougars that hunted them. In the winter, she dragged hay out here with the ranch hands, cut holes in the river ice. She believed she could grow them into a powerful herd. They’re magnificent, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. I’ve read about them—I even heard that President Roosevelt is starting a national herd. But you’re right, Silver City has very few buffalo, unless you include the fellas at the Nickel after their shift.”
He laughed at that. “The men do have a way of winding down that might be less than tame.”
“I’ve awakened to men sleeping on the boardwalk all the way to the Times office, even in February.”
She watched the herd, singling out a calf as it moved away from its mother. “I’d love to write an article about the herd.”
He drew in a breath. “I don’t think so. If things get difficult down at the mine, the union boys just might decide on payback. Buffalo fetch a hefty price and still make good eating.” He turned his horse around. “Let’s go.”
His shift in demeanor rattled her more than she would have liked. Probably just because he’d been such a kind host. “I’m sorry, Daughtry. Of course I’ll keep your secret.” She caught up to him.
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