She had to see what she could do to help. Running into the house, she grabbed her small leather pouch that held salves, bandages, and her herbal remedies. Her shoes were not suited for riding so she looked under the bed where she’d set Clay’s extra pair after she’d rubbed grease from the sheep’s wool into the scuffed leather. The boots flopped on her ankles as she walked, but with a pair of his thick socks over her stockings, she could manage.
By the time she saddled Biscuit—the smaller, dun-colored mare—and rode toward Wildcat Ridge, the cloud had mushroomed twice bigger. Worry tensed her hold on the reins, and the mare skittered to the side. Hazelanne pushed air through her mouth and relaxed her grip. Her legs already ached because she wasn’t used to horseback riding, but she had no choice. Not one person had visited the ranch in the time since her arrival, meaning she couldn’t count on anyone bringing word to the isolated location. The way the wedding was handled, she bet only a few people in town even knew Clay had a wife.
Crossing the bridge at Oak Street, she saw no one in the streets at the north end of town. A strange occurrence in the middle of the day. She trotted Biscuit down Front Street, making sure to avoid big shards of broken windows and cedar shingles dotting the dirt. No customers moved in and out of any of the businesses along the street. The path took her past the undeveloped land where Moose Creek ran until she reached Mountain Road.
Several people were in sight, but they wandered the street, apparently with no real purpose.
The strangeness of the situation pumped her blood faster. Something terrible had occurred to make people act so strangely. With a squeeze of her knees, she guided Biscuit toward the closest one. “Sir, can you please tell me what’s happened?”
The tall man turned, his expression slack. Dirt caked his face and hands and covered his clothing. “The Gold King mine exploded.”
What? She gasped. “I don’t believe it.” Spurring the horse forward, she rode toward where Clay told her the mine was. There she found a big gathering of people who had formed rows of half-circles with what must have been the mine’s entrance as the center. Most stood, slumped shouldered and sobbing softly. A few hugged each other while many waited alone, their arms wrapped about their middles in self-comfort. Children gripped mother’s skirts and looked around wide-eyed.
Toward one side, a wailing woman dug with her hands in the loose dirt while another woman urged her to stand. “Stop it, Priscilla. They’re all gone. All our men.”
At the entrance, a few men dug with shovels. The small amounts of dirt being cleared were miniscule compared to the huge mound.
They must work from a sense of obligation. Even she realized their efforts were only to retrieve bodies, not save lives. Tying off Blackie to the closest tree, she walked through the crowd of stunned people until she spotted someone familiar. A dark-haired woman with tan skin wearing a fashionable gray cloak stood a few feet away. Hazelanne had spoken to her in the mercantile once. A singer with the foreign-sounding name of Dulcina, she performed at the Last Chance Saloon, which she co-owned with her husband. “Missus Crass?”
Sniffling, Dulcina shook herself then blinked. “Isn’t this a tragedy?”
“What’s a tragedy?” Dread settled like a ball of unleavened bread in her belly.
“All the miners are dead.” She grabbed a fistful of the cloak at her neck and held tight. “After the explosion ripped through town, my husband, Stuart, rushed to help but…”
“All dead?” Blood pounded in her ears. Hazelanne grabbed for the woman’s shoulder to steady herself. “Are you sure?”
“Doctor Spense said the explosion would have robbed them of air. But the collapsing walls would have smashed them.” Sobs overtook her, and her shoulders hitched.
Her sympathies rose for the grieving woman, and Hazelanne slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.” Those words were the only she could think to say. She had no idea if the woman had a loving marriage or an awkward one like her own.
Shaking her head, Dulcina lifted a lace handkerchief to her nose and dabbed. “The second explosion buried the townspeople who ran to the rescue with dirt and rubble. Some were women and children.”
“Don’t these mines have a back exit?” She refused to accept the words she heard. “Or another air shaft running to the surface?” Wouldn’t her husband have found a way to escape? Clay was strong. She rubbed a finger over the fabric covering her forearm and bit back a wince at the pinch of pain. He’d proved that fact last night. In the mirror that morning, the sight of purplish-black marks inflicted by his powerful fingers sickened her.
“No one has mentioned that possibility.”
Not knowing what else to do, she remained at Dulcina’s side. Did the other women hold out hope their husbands had survived? Were they here, standing in tribute, like they would at a cemetery? She sent a quick glance around the immediate area. Evidence of wet eyes and flowing tears proved an opposite answer. Hiccups came from those women who’d stopped crying. After last night’s incident, Hazelanne couldn’t squeeze out a single tear for the drunkard who attacked her.
Maybe the women cried because, now as widows, they were on their own without a source of income or support. When that reason worked its way through her thick cloud of denial, she swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat. Married less than a week and now she was a widow?
That fact just couldn’t be true. Widows were old, wrinkled, and smelled of rose water. They repeated stories about their beloved Horace or Rupert or William and how the man was the love of their live. They never again married, staying true to the husband’s memory—a fact they wore with pride. Hazelanne glanced at the Spanish beauty at her side and couldn’t imagine her in widow’s weeds and living alone for very long.
Think clearly. Wasn’t an official proclamation about these types of accidents usually made? She spun and stared at Dulcina. “Did someone from the mining company make an announcement about the explosion?”
The woman frowned. “I got here late, because I busied myself at the saloon.” She let out a big sigh. “Isn’t that behavior awful? I kept expecting my Stuart to return. He had no stake in the mine. Why did he have to act so bravely?” Tears brimmed in her dark eyes. “The only one who seems to be in charge is the doctor who is dealing with the bodies as they are d-dug out.”
A glimmer of hope came alive, and Hazelanne moved through the crowd, asking others if they’d heard anything official. Muted women stared with vacant gazes and shook their heads. She moved closer to the mine entrance searching for anyone who looked like he or she might have an answer.Then she spotted a man and woman who looked to be in their forties near a line of bodies covered in sheets. “Excuse me, sir.”
The man turned and took a step closer, holding up a hand. “Ma’am, you should stay back.”
The woman with red-rimmed eyes stood by her husband’s side, clinging to his arm.
“I wanted to know if anyone in an official capacity is present at the scene.”
“I haven’t seen Mortimer Crane.” He moved to return to his task.
“Who’s that man, please? I’m new in town and haven’t met everyone.”
The man huffed out a breath. “Pardon my gruffness. I’m Doctor Josiah Spense, and this is my wife, Martha.”
Hazelanne nodded. “Hazelanne Oliphant.”
Martha stepped close and rested a hand on Hazelanne’s forearm. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
With gritted teeth, she breathed through the stab of physical pain the woman’s touch caused. Then, the words hit her ears, and guilt flashed through her body. She stood in the midst of mourning women, and she should be acting more upset about Clay’s death. All the other women in this grieving group could barely speak, but she chattered about an official announcement.
Faking a sniffle, she dashed fingers under her eyes at non-existent tears. “Thank you. But don’t be too hasty in your condolences.” The appearance of a hopeful wife who didn’t believe what was in front of her
was a role she could carry off. “Survivors might still be found.”
Doctor Spense’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Crane is the mine owner. He might be at his other mine in Cranesville or at one of his many businesses here or in that town.”
Mortimer Crane. That was the man who would make the statement that changed her future.
Chapter Five
B
rice sauntered down the street in Park City not far from his boardinghouse. Missing last week’s run because of a toothache had cut into his spending cash. But riding on a bouncing coach going up and down in elevation with a throbbing tooth had been agony. Although he only normally spent one night a week here, he’d been glad for the room to recuperate. Besides, he liked the idea of having an address other than General Delivery. He had an agreement with his landlady that if she really needed the space, she could box up his few belongings and rent the room—except for the night he’d reserved.
In the next block, he turned into the shop of his favorite barber and slipped into an empty waiting chair. Once a week, he treated himself to a shave because he liked receiving the expert treatment, complete with hot towel. As he waited for Frank to finish with the customer in the other chair, he unfolded the Deseret News, a popular newspaper printed in Salt Lake City, that he picked up from an adjacent chair and scanned the front page. The headline bolted him upright, and he glanced at the date. Yesterday’s paper.
Disaster Strikes Gold King Mine
Brice read the article which cited the number of deaths and that faulty shoring might be the cause for the March twenty-eighth collapse. Re-reading the article, he noted that townspeople had been among the counted causalities following a second explosion. He tightened his grip, and the paper crinkled. Faulty shoring meant the mine owner—he glanced back at the article and scanned until he found the name…Mortimer Crane—hadn’t installed the proper amount of timbers to provide a safe environment. A collapse was the result of not enough timber, but the explosions had to be caused by mine gas that caught a spark.
The image of the gentle woman he’d spoken with on the stagecoach route that day sprang to mind. Surely, Miss Pitts—although by now, she would have become Missus Oliphant—wasn’t one of those residents who rushed to aid the disaster. With a smile, he remembered how she’d spent time with each of the mules when the fresh teams were harnessed—surefire evidence of a tender heart. Then he remembered how her intended groom, Oliphant, grabbed her arm and pulled her down the street, he’d wanted to leap off the top of the coach and confront the bully. “Hey, Frank, did you hear anything more about that mine collapse in Wildcat Ridge?”
“Sure did.” The elderly barber looked up, a razor covered in soap lather held in his right hand. “A salesman came through right after it happened and said the place looked like a ghost town. Guess the women and children are all inside their houses grieving.”
“How will the town survive?” He thought of the business that had flowed through that town, many of the deliveries carried on the Wells Fargo line, and the passengers who arrived to visit their loved ones.
“Don’t know. Since the mine owner has another gold mine a bit farther west, folks are saying he’ll probably walk away from the Gold King and the town of Wildcat Ridge.”
The answer didn’t sit right. How could a man whose business was responsible for the existence of almost an entire town just walk away? Didn’t this Crane guy have a scrap of human decency and care about the dependents of his deceased employees? The urge to learn what happened to the pretty animal-lover burned in his gut. Gazing into the mirror as Frank shaved off his whiskers, Brice looked at his shaggy hair and asked for a haircut, too. Then he marched across town to the Wells Fargo office and spoke with the district agent, Dan Tremont, about attending the mass funeral planned for the second Saturday in April.
g
April 12, 1884
After finishing his tasks at the Wells Fargo office, Brice glanced in a mirror and smoothed down errant waves. When his hair was short, the waves were unruly. After a last adjustment to the throat-choking ribbon tie, he headed south down Front Street. The mass funeral at the Wildcat Cemetery would start soon, and he still didn’t know if he should join the crowd as a mourner or if he should wait until the service ends and then move to speak with Miss Pitts…er, Missus Oliphant. For the past several days, he questioned why being at this event held so much importance, and he hadn’t found a reason why he shouldn’t attend. All he wanted was to see for himself that the lady was dealing well with her new situation. Or maybe her husband hadn’t been in the mine. Although the article mentioned both shifts of workers…
As he approached on Mountain Road, he noticed the service had already started so he moved along the perimeter of the crowd until he spotted her honey-blonde head bowed in what he assumed was prayer. A small, black hat perched on top of her head. Only three weeks has passed since he first met her, but he’d swear she’d lost ten pounds. Her black dress, the color detracted from her normal vibrancy, hung from her shoulders and sagged at her waist.
All around him, women sniffled and sobbed, filling the air with their heartfelt grief. He didn’t care about what words were said or by whom. His entire focus was on Miss Hazelanne—the way he preferred to think of her since he detested having that drunk’s name attached to hers—and how she fared. Several times, she swiped a hand over her cheeks, and her shoulders heaved up then down, as if she attempted to stop her tears.
How he wished he had the right to stand near her to offer support should she need it.
In the second row, a woman crumpled to the ground and laid her head on her knees, wailing her deceased husband’s name. “What’s to become of me?”
Goose flesh rose on his arms. Outward signs of extreme emotion always made him uneasy. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the sudden tension. What if Miss Hazelanne had such an outburst? Maybe speaking with her was not such a great idea. From thirty feet away, he could see she might be too thin but she’d arrived here at the event, so she couldn’t be too distraught. She must have the ability to carry on with her life. He eased his boot to the side, intending to slip away.
At the same precise moment, Miss Hazelanne lifted her head and scanned the crowd.
Brice stilled. Do I want her to notice me, or don’t I?
Her gaze slipped past then returned and widened. A smile twitched her lips.
The sight of her tentative smile caught him in the gut, and he breathed easier. The decision to be here was a good one. Until she looked away, he was content to maintain eye contact to assure her that she wasn’t alone. The support wasn’t much but offered all he could at this moment and from this distance. The longer their gazes held, the more he felt a true connection with another person—a feeling he’d not allowed himself since running away from a drunk father who beat him for the smallest provocation. The lesson Brice had learned young, that other people always disappointed, stuck with him into adulthood.
The sounds of clothes rustling and shoes on rocky ground alerted him to the end of the service. Although he wanted to go to her, he knew the proper way was for her to approach him and start the conversation.
She embraced a dark-haired woman then waved as the woman moved away. Squaring her shoulders, she turned and approached.
As she drew near, he spotted dark circles under her amber eyes that normally sparkled. But, interesting enough, he saw no evidence of crying—no wet lashes or puffiness or redness.
“Mister MacAndrews.”
“Miss Hazelanne.” He’d meant to use her married name in case anyone else heard their conversation, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the name.
Her eyes rounded. “I’m surprised to see you here. Did you have friends among the deceased?”
“My friend is among the group of widows. I came to see how you are.”
“Oh.” She blinked fast and cleared her throat. “Your kindness caught me off-guard.” Tears brimmed and plopped onto her cheeks. “I beg your pardon.” She moved to turn away
.
“Don’t.” He touched fingers to her arm and watched her wince and pull away. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
Dipping her chin toward her chest, she shook her head. “Nothing.”
On the back of her neck were four, faint yellow marks that looked suspiciously like fingerprints. His blood chilled then ran hot. “Did that bas–, er, drunk hurt you?” When no answer came, he counseled himself to use a gentler tone. “Look at me, please.”
With a slow move, she lifted her face until she connected with his gaze. “Once. The night before the mine explosion.”
Brice ground his teeth against the roar that built from his gut. Once was different from dozens of times, but his reaction to abuse was well-rooted in indignation and outrage. “I’m sorry. I wish I had known.”
Her brows wrinkled over the bridge of her nose. “What could you have done?”
“Give the man a sampling of what a larger and stronger person’s anger feels like.” He braced his feet apart and crossed both arms over his chest. Although his gut churned at the memories, he promised himself he would control his anger. She needed no more of that hurtful emotion in her life.
Tears welled again, and she blinked fast. “You are a surprise, Mister MacAndrew.”
“Please call me Brice. A surprise? Why?” Had what he said reminded her of the husband she’d lost?
“I’ve missed hearing words spoken with compassion and having someone inquire about my welfare. As you might remember, I arrived in Wildcat Ridge only a few days before the explosion. The ranch is isolated, and I wasn’t encouraged to make friends. So, I’m all alone now.” She glanced around then leaned closer. “Since the explosion, the widows have withdrawn into their own grief and inviting them to tea seems inappropriate.”
Hazelanne (Widows of Wildcat Ridge Book 15) Page 5