Hunter sputtered out a disdainful laugh. “Emery’s son? Not only would Emery’s son lay a hand on his wife, but he thinks so little of her that he’s out every night panting after his own brother’s wife.”
Oliver leveled him a warning stare, which he promptly ignored.
“ ‘Course, that’s been going on so long it’s a miracle it doesn’t die of old age. Why do you think Matthew didn’t get married sooner? He was in love with Joanie Pickwick way back in high school, only Monti got to her first.”
“Shut up, boy.”
“Joanie got pregnant, they got married and had four more kids, and by then Monti’s charm was wearing thin. And there was Matthew, waiting in the wings.”
“Shut up, boy.”
“Didn’t take him long to make it with Joanie. So you know what he does now? He’s never home at night. If he isn’t screwin’ Joanie, he’s driving around wishin’ he could, and if he isn’t doin’ that, he’s drinking himself dumb. It’s a miracle we haven’t found him dead at the bottom of a ravine.”
Judd had been listening, with both hands on the guardrail and his eyes on the pit below, when he saw something that set him off.
“Jesus!” he yelled, then even louder, “Get out of the way, Mason!” He gestured the man away from the piece of rock being moved. “Goddamnit, move him or he’s gonna lose a hand to that slab!” he bellowed, and took off for the cable car that would take him below. Frankie Mason was one of the new men he’d recently hired, and he’d had his doubts at the time. Frankie was a slight man, an electrician by trade, and he did fine working with small wires. Working with large slabs of stone and heavy machines was a different ball game. A man needed peripheral vision. He needed an overall understanding of the process and a sixth sense as to what would happen when. Frankie lacked that.
Stuffing a hard hat on his head, he swung into the rude cable car, little more than an oversize orange crate, and pushed a button to start the gears and pulleys. Hunter vaulted in as the car started down.
“Mistake to hire Frankie Mason,” he said.
Judd was telling himself the same thing. But there were reasons he had hired Frankie, and those reasons hadn’t changed. “He’s got kids. He needs the job.”
“Put him in the shed,” Hunter said, swaying with the bucking of the car. “No, better, train him to carve. Some of those new jobs need inscriptions. No way can Gaitor and Hal do it alone.”
The suggestion had merit, even though it would mean less of an immediate return on Frankie Mason. Frankie wasn’t an artist, but if he could splice tiny wires, he could handle the etcher. “Not a bad idea,” he said to Hunter.
With his eyes on the men below, Hunter said, “I come up with them sometimes.”
“Can you come up with one to keep these guys focused? I don’t know what it is lately. Frankie’s problem is inexperience, but that’s only one of the near misses we’ve had. Their concentration stinks. Someone’s gonna be hurt one of these days. Hey, Murphy!” he called in a voice that would carry over the hiss of the air compressor driving the drills. The cable car lurched to the bottom of the quarry. “Get Springer over here. I want him working with Mason.” To himself he muttered, “O-kay. Let’s give it one last shot.”
HE WAS STILL MUTTERING TWO WEEKS LATER. CHELSEA couldn’t hear what he was saying exactly—it was all under his breath—but she could see the displeasure on his face. They were at Kankamaug, a hill of solid granite, one of the newer ones being quarried. She had come to see the stone, which was lavender with sprinkles of mica that reflected the light of the overcast sky.
October had brought a thin blanket of frost to the early morning grass and a fiery palette of reds, oranges, and yellows to the hillsides. Though the air warmed comfortably by midday, Chelsea rarely left Boulderbrook without a sweater or jacket.
On this day she was wearing stretch jeans and sneakers, a V-neck sweater that fell low, and a slouchy blazer.
“What’s the problem?” she asked Judd.
“Cable attaches to a dog hook, which goes into a hole drilled in the stone. They’re puttin’ in too many hooks. Balance is off.” He set off for the ladder that would take him to the ledge below. It was the first of a series, stacked ledge to ledge, looking like something from the Indian Southwest.
Chelsea glanced at Hunter. “I’m going down, too.”
“He won’t like that,” Hunter warned.
But she wanted to be below.
Taking the hard hat dangling from his hand, she put it on her head and made off for the ladder. Judd had already disappeared over the lower ledge.
The ladder was wide and heavy. She stepped onto the first rung, only to stop when Hunter grabbed her wrist. She looked up in surprise, not so much because he was stopping her but because he had touched her to do it.
“It’s not safe down there.”
“I want to see what’s happening.” More accurately, she wanted to stay near Judd. She was wanting that a lot lately. He exuded a confidence and competence that gave her comfort, not that she lacked either herself, just that he had more. He hadn’t touched her since he’d learned she was pregnant, and she could accept that. There was nothing sexual about what she wanted now. She just wanted to know what he did and see how he did it.
Rung by rung, she went down the ladder. The breeze blew her blazer away from her body, chilling her, but she didn’t stop. When she reached the first ledge, she crossed to the ladder leading to the next. She was halfway down that when the breeze gusted again, and while she was huddling against the chill, she heard a shout from one of the men, followed by a thunderous crack and an earthshaking smack. The machines stopped. For a split second there was total silence. In its wake rose a flurry of frightened shouts. She turned to see every man in the area running toward where a huge boulder had fallen from the cables that had been lifting it.
She looked for Judd in the rush of men but couldn’t pick his hard hat from the rest. Frightened, she hurried down the last of the rungs. She was halfway there when Hunter caught up with her. He snagged her elbow this time.
“Stay here,” he ordered, and ran on ahead.
She ran right after him. When he pushed his way through the men, she followed. She came to an abrupt stop, crowding into his side, when she saw the two men on the ground. Her heart stopped, then raced on. One was Judd. The other was the man who’d been drilling the dog holes. Judd was moving—she breathed a sigh of relief for that, but the sigh caught in her throat when she saw the other man’s leg pinned beneath the rock.
Judd was shouting directions. He had gone pale beneath his tan. The other men were similarly pale. One cradled the injured man, one was running toward the crane. Hunter had left Chelsea’s side and was scrambling up a ladder carrying a drill, while another man held the ladder steady. Two more men were on ladders, securing dog hooks in previously drilled holes. The growl of Hunter’s drill came again and again. He put pressure on it with his stomach, leaning one way, then another to widen the hole. He grabbed a waiting hook, secured it inside, and slid down the ladder.
The crane operator shifted into gear. The cables creaked and tightened. The stone lifted just enough for Judd and several of the others to drag the man beneath it free.
His lower leg was crushed. They set him down carefully, but his cry of pain tore into Chelsea’s gut. No one touched his boot; his leg was a bloody mess. She stood there, unable to take her eyes from it, while the activity went on around her. It wasn’t a frenzied activity, but a deliberate series of acts performed by men who weren’t strangers to accidents. Quarrying was the second most hazardous occupation in the country, a fact that the men joked about in lighter times. Chelsea didn’t hear any joking now.
Their voices were a low, tight rumble of concern.
“Smittie’s bringing the truck to the bottom—“
“—need an ambulance—“
“—nearest is two towns over. Truck’ll do—“
“—onto the board, shift him, careful, careful—“
“—my leg—“
“Okay, Wendell, you’re doin’ fine—“
Three on each side and one on either end, the men lifted the board and began carefully working their way down the side of the hill. Judd was in their midst. So was Hunter. Chelsea followed closely, along with the remaining quarrymen. Wendell moaned. The men reassured him. Fallen leaves and twigs snapped beneath their boots, and through it all the low voices droned on.
“Damn dog holes weren’t balanced—“
“—signaled the crane too soon—“
“—hooks slipped—“
“Where the hell’s Smittie?”
“What’s she doin’ here?”
At the last, Chelsea’s eyes flew to Judd, who had only then seen where she was. His eyes were livid. He jerked his head toward the top of the quarry. But she shook her own, no. She wasn’t leaving. He repeated the gesture. Still she didn’t move.
“Hunter!” he roared, though Hunter was right beside him. “Get her out of here!”
The low rumble of voices went on.
“Last thing we need’s a woman—“
“—don’t know her place—“
“—knocked up anyway—“
“—pregnant as Stokey’s newest—“
Hunter was suddenly before her, a solid body blocking her way.
“I’m going with them,” she whispered.
But he shook his head.
She slipped to the right, then the left, and managed to evade him. She ran on in an attempt to catch up with the others.
They reached the bottom of the hillside just as the truck chugged up and swung around. Chelsea moved aside to watch the wide board on which Wendell was lying being lifted and put into the back bed. His leg was covered with blood. Needing reassurance that he would be all right, she instinctively shifted her eyes to Judd, but his face held no reassurance. It was ashen, his features pinched. His left side, from shoulder to waist, was soaked with blood. She assumed it was Wendell’s—until he staggered trying to climb into the truck.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, and started forward, but Hunter hauled her back.
“He’ll be all right. They’ll both be all right.”
She pulled against his hand. “I want to go in the truck.”
“I’ll take you.”
“I want—“
“We’ll get there before they will, Chelsea.” He had started back up the hillside with her arm still firmly in his grasp. The instant she heard the truck roar off and stopped fighting, he let go.
She ran ahead of him now, trying to get him moving faster. “What’s wrong with Judd?”
“Got gouged with a hook. Doc Summers’ll stitch him up.”
“There was so much blood.”
“Gouges run deep.”
“Do you think it tore something vital?”
Hunter looked at her face, then her stomach. “Nothing you have to worry about,” he drawled as they ran, and all she’d forgotten at the sight of Judd’s blood came rushing back.
They had seen she was pregnant. The wind had done it.
“It’s not Judd’s,” she told Hunter, because that seemed like the most important thing to say.
“No?”
“No.”
“Timing’s right. You two have been doin’ it since July.”
“Not since July. It’s over now. But the baby happened before I left Baltimore.”
“You’re a real swinger.”
“One man. One time. Hunter, what’ll happen to Wendell?”
“Depends. He may lose the leg.”
Hunter was in the lead now. She was feeling less steady and had to make more of an effort to keep up. “Is he one of the new men?”
“Nope. Been with us fifteen years.” They reached the ladder at the bottom ledge. “You go first,” he said, and waited until she started up.
At the top of the quarry he held out a hand. “Give me your keys.”
She passed them to him as they ran toward the Pathfinder, then climbed onto the passenger’s seat. “Is the local hospital all right?” she asked.
Hunter started the car. “If it isn’t, Doc Summers will say so.” He wheeled them around and took off down the back side of Kankamaug. “He’s good that way.”
“What’s his specialty?”
“No specialty. When you’re the only doctor in town, you do everything from stitching cuts, to setting broken bones, to delivering babies.” He took his eyes from the road just long enough to give her stomach a good stare. “That’s rich.” He chuckled. “Are they ever gonna love this.”
“Who?”
“Everyone in town.” He chuckled again. “We’re talkin’ scandal with a capital S.”
“Come on, Hunter. No scandal. This is the nineties.”
“No matter. This is Norwich Notch.”
“Women get pregnant all the time.”
“Not ones who are visible in town and unmarried.” He shot her a fast, uncertain glance. “You aren’t, are you?”
“Would I have ever been with Judd if I was?”
“You tell me.”
“No.”
Hunter swung onto the main road and picked up speed. They drove in silence for a while. Chelsea saw Judd in her mind’s eye, saw the blood on the front of his shirt, imagined the torn flesh beneath. “Will someone know enough to staunch the blood?” she asked.
“This happens all the time.”
That wasn’t much of a comfort to her. She’d seen scars on Judd. There was a small one on his forearm, a more jagged one on his calf. But it was one thing to see something old and faded, another to see something open.
“So who’s the father of your kid?” Hunter asked.
She swallowed back a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with Carl. “A man in Baltimore.”
“Won’t he marry you?”
“I won’t marry him. Or I wouldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Anyway, it’s a moot point. He’s married to someone else now.”
“So fast?”
She turned to the window just as Hunter came up on the rear end of a station wagon. He honked, then sped past the instant the car pulled to the right.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Six minutes.”
“Why isn’t there an ambulance?”
“Town can’t afford one.”
Her hands were like ice. She clenched them in the folds of her sweater.
“So you’re gonna have the kid yourself?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’re you gonna say when it asks about its father?”
“I’ll say who he is.” Having spent her own life wondering who her parents were, she would never keep something like that from her child. Carl would know about the child long before then. He and Hailey would just have to cope.
“That’s good,” Hunter said. For a minute she thought he was done. Then he said, “My mother wouldn’t tell me. I used to ask all the time. It’s not right that a child shouldn’t know.”
“I agree.”
He shot her another fast glance. “Don’t you wonder?”
“All the time.”
“Did you ever go looking?”
“I am.” But she didn’t elaborate. One revelation a day was about her speed. “How much longer?”
“Four minutes.”
“Can’t you go any faster?”
He gave the Pathfinder more gas. “You’re the first person who’s ever asked me that. Come to think of it, you’re the first person who’s ever willingly let me drive her car.”
“I trust you more than I trust myself right now.” Chelsea glanced at her watch. “Where do you think they are?”
“Around the next bend,” Hunter said, and sure enough, they rounded the bend to find the truck straight ahead.
Chelsea tried to see into the back, but the tailgate was raised. She saw heads as they passed, but not Judd’s. “Maybe he’s passed out.”
“Probably lying down.” He w
aited for an oncoming car to pass, then sped on by the truck. “We’ll get to the hospital first and let them know he’s coming.” In the next breath, on a note of dawning, he said, “That’s why you were sick that day on the motorcycle.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How far along are you?”
“Five months.”
“Wouldn’t guess it. You’re too small.”
But Chelsea didn’t look small to herself. Not anymore. “It’s my clothes. They hide it,” she said.
“The town’ll think you’re less. They’ll think that it was Judd, and if not Judd, someone else here. Notchers point fingers. You can count on that.”
“Who did they point to when your mother got pregnant?”
“I don’t know. But when she died, they pointed at me. For the longest time, I believed it. Sick, huh?”
Chelsea studied his face for sign of emotion beyond the words, but either there was none there, or she was too worried about Judd to see it. “Did you really believe it?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. “Thought I’d killed her. Thought I was capable of doing ‘most anything ugly, and no one set me straight until Judd.”
She saw emotion this time. It was worry, the same as she was feeling inside, and it came and went so quickly that she might have imagined she’d seen it, if she hadn’t heard the words. No one set me straight until Judd. They held recognition and appreciation, and they sparked dozens of questions for Chelsea to ask. But the Pathfinder had passed through the center of town, east to west, was speeding over the small covered bridge and approaching the big, old white Victorian that housed the hospital. She tucked the questions away in the back of her mind.
By the time the truck arrived with its wounded, Neil Summers and each of the four nurses on his staff were at the door to greet it. At a glance, Neil knew that the reconstruction work Wendell’s leg would need required a specialist. He had Wendell transferred to a gurney and wheeled inside, where he cut off the boot, did what he could to stop the bleeding and make Wendell as comfortable as possible until the ambulance from Adams Falls arrived to take him to Concord.
Then he turned to Judd.
Chelsea and Hunter were in the room with him, standing out of the way, she with her hands tucked under her arms for warmth and her eyes glued to his chest. Judd was stretched out on an examining table—that alone would have upset her, he was such an active man—with his eyes closed, a knee bent, and his jaw clenched against the pain. One of the nurses had cut away his shirt and cleaned him enough to see that the gouge was localized in the area of his shoulder, but blood had dried in streaks from his middle to the waistband of his jeans.
The Passions of Chelsea Kane Page 30