From Runaway to Pregnant Bride

by Tatiana March

Fighting the disappointment, she returned to the gap. “I’m sorry,” she called out to the men. “No luck. No gold.”

  “In that case, you can damn well stay there,” Mr. Hicks shouted back.

  For an instant, terror gripped Annabel. Then sanity returned. She strained her ears and could hear the old man chuckling at his stupid joke.

  “We’ll get you out, kid,” Clay shouted, his tone reassuring.

  The rope jerked. The sudden tug around her waist caught Annabel by surprise. Clumsy in her big boots, she lost her balance. Her feet scrambled for purchase against the cave floor covered in a thick layer of bat droppings. One arm flailing, the other arm high in an effort to protect the lantern from smashing against the hard stone surface, she toppled backward, her rump hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

  “Ouch!” she cried out, and added a curse she’d picked up from Mr. Hicks. Carefully, she set down the lamp and rubbed her aching rear.

  The rope snapped taut again, pulling her sideways. Unprepared, Annabel tipped over and flopped onto her belly. Bracing her weight on her elbows, she tensed her muscles to keep her face away from the stinking layer of bat guano.

  Clay’s voice came through. “What’s wrong, kid?”

  She turned her head toward the fissure and called back, “I slipped and fell. Give me a minute. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to get out.”

  As she scrambled to her feet, a glint of color in the rock caught her eye. Right there, in front of her, something glittered in the floor. Holding her breath against the stench of guano, Annabel bent down for a better look.

  A gleam of gold!

  Her movements urgent, she dropped to her knees and studied the ground, the acrid smells forgotten. In the cave floor, where her boots had scrambled for foothold, cutting a groove through the layer of guano, a yellow stripe two inches wide sparkled in the lantern light.

  Frantic now, Annabel scraped the bat droppings out of the way, grateful for the thick leather gloves that protected her hands. Fortunately, the damp air had prevented the guano from drying into a solid layer, allowing her to scoop the substance aside.

  She scraped and scraped and scraped, the healing blisters on her palms getting sore despite the protection of the gloves. The smells of phosphorus and ammonia filled her breath, but she ignored the sour stench. Inch by inch she cleared the floor, following the golden stripe across the cave.

  “Kid, are you all right?” Clay called out.

  “I’m winded from the fall,” she replied. “Give me a moment.”

  She’d already told the men there was no gold. She didn’t want to raise their hopes, only to have to quash them again. She wouldn’t say anything until she had made a thorough inspection and could be certain. Holding up a lantern, Annabel studied the texture and color of the seam in the floor. She found a small rock, used it to chip away a tiny fragment.

  “Kid, talk to me,” Clay yelled. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Annabel replied, impatience in her tone. Although well meant, Clay’s concern kept interrupting her thoughts. She put the lantern down, lifted the hem of the big leather coat, untied the oilcloth pouch fastened around her waist and took out her tools.

  Squatting on her heels, Annabel mapped out the vein, carefully measuring the width and length, taking the time to study the pattern. Gold was usually found mixed with quartz, but the bright yellow color indicated the vein was almost pure gold.

  “Kid, are you hurt?” Clay shouted once more. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not hurt,” Annabel replied and put away the pencil and paper she had used to make notes. “I’m ready to come out.”

  She picked up the pair of lanterns from the guano-covered ground and made her way to the opening of the fissure. Sliding her feet carefully in order not to slip, she kept her eyes on the rope to stop any sudden tug from jerking her out of balance again.

  “Take the lamps,” she called out.

  Tilting her head back, she lifted one of the lanterns high, ready for the pole with a metal hook to poke through. For a moment, Annabel stared at the fissure, a vague sense of alarm stirring in her brain.

  Then it struck her—the opening had moved.

  Not moved. But it was higher up.

  No longer at shoulder height, she could barely reach the end of the aspen trunk with her fingertips, and only if she rose on her toes. When she’d received the lanterns through the opening, she’d failed to notice the height difference, for the lamps had been hanging by their handles and she’d gripped them by the base.

  The floor of the cave must be lower than the floor of the mine tunnel, which put the fissure opening out of reach on this side. Fighting the surge of fear, Annabel put one lantern down, adjusted her grip on the other lantern to hold it by the base and slipped the handle over the hook in the pole as it came through.

  The lantern vanished out of sight. The shadows in the cave deepened. A shiver of alarm rippled over her. There was something ominous about the darkness, as if some unseen force was waiting to swallow her up.

  “Hurry up,” she called out.

  The wooden pole poked through again. Annabel hung the second lantern on the hook at the end and watched the light disappear into the gap. Solid darkness closed around her, gloomy and still and threatening.

  “Don’t pull the lamp all the way,” Annabel yelled, a hint of panic in her tone. “Leave it halfway down the fissure until I’m crawling through.”

  The glow ceased fading, and the narrow band of vertical light from the fissure eased the darkness in the cave. Annabel felt her heart hammering in her chest. Despite the cool air, perspiration coated her skin.

  Up to now, her focus had been on getting into the cave. She’d given little thought to getting out again. Was this what the lure of riches did to men? Did greed drive one blind to danger? Or was it only natural to assume that if you could complete the journey in one direction the return trip could be no more difficult?

  But the fissure opening was two feet higher up.

  And on the other side she’d had two men helping her.

  “Hold the rope tight,” she called out. “I need to climb. The floor is lower on this side. I can barely touch the aspen trunk with my fingertips.”

  Keeping on the thick leather gloves to protect her hands, Annabel rose on her toes and reached up to curl her fingers around the end of the aspen trunk. The rope pulled taut. She lifted up one foot, braced the toe of her boot against the rock face.

  “Now!” she shouted.

  The rope jerked tight, cutting into her body. She scrambled upward, slung one arm over the aspen trunk. Her boots scrabbled for purchase against the slippery rock wall. The muscles in her arms quivered as she tried to climb. She couldn’t get a foothold, couldn’t haul herself higher with her arms.

  Her grip on the aspen trunk slipped, and she fell to dangle at the end of the rope. Her body swung sideways, her knees slamming against the solid rock. She tipped her head backward to protect her face. The rope bit into her rib cage with a crushing force.

  “Let me down,” she yelled. “Let me down.”

  The rope slackened. Her toes touched the ground. Don’t panic. Think. Stay calm. Annabel tugged at the rope to ease the pressure against her ribs and took a step back to study the rock face. She fought the urge to ask for one lantern to be returned. They couldn’t afford to leave any of their sources of light behind.

  She reached into the pouch at her waist, took out a candle and a small waterproof tin of matches. The cave walls were damp, the soles of her boots muddy. Looking around, Annabel searched for a dry surface against which to strike the match. Finally, she bounced up on tiptoe and used a bit of bark on the aspen trunk.

  In the flickering light of the candle, she examined the rock, searching for tiny dents and cracks, any unevenness she could use f
or a foothold, attempting to map a route upward along the wall. She took off one glove, felt the surface of the rock. It was damp and slippery.

  “Kid, what’s going on? Have you stopped to take a nap? We haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Hicks calling, and to Annabel’s surprise his coarse humor calmed her nerves.

  “You gotta wait till I’m ready,” she called back.

  Perhaps, if she asked the men to make a torch for her—a rag soaked in kerosene—she could dry out the humid wall, making it easier to climb. No, too dangerous, Annabel decided. She sniffed at the air, thick with the odors of phosphorus and ammonia. The guano might be flammable. Using a kerosene-soaked torch could turn the interior of the cave into a fireball.

  She concentrated on memorizing the footholds in the rock. On the left, a small depression at knee height. To the right, higher up, a tiny protrusion. From there on, the fissure widened to three inches. If she could get that high, she might be able to wedge the toe of her boot into the fissure and climb up.

  “All right,” she called out. “Haul me out of here.”

  The rope tightened. She bounced up, clung to the rock, scrambled madly. Left foot. The tiny depression. Right foot. The small protrusion. Clasping the aspen trunk with both hands, she lifted one foot high, fitted the toe of her boot into the fissure and tensed her muscles. “Pull,” she yelled and surged upward.

  The rope failed to tighten. She fell out of balance, flung backward and tumbled down. The rope snapped taut, leaving her swinging like a pendulum against the rock. The impact stole the air from her lungs. Rasping, Annabel fought to get her breath going again.

  “Give me slack,” she shouted in croaky voice.

  “Can’t.” Clay’s tone was stark. “The rope is stuck.”

  Despair seized Annabel. With all her preparation, she’d forgotten to take a knife. If she had a blade now, she could cut the rope. The men could pull the rope through and feed it out again. They could hammer metal eyelets into the aspen trunk to make sure the rope ran freely through the crevice.

  But without a knife she was left dangling. The pressure of the rope crushed her ribs, making it hard to breathe. Was this how she was going to die? At the end of a rope in a dark, dank cave?

  The dreams of gold and riches seemed meaningless now. Prospectors and miners who risked their lives in search of gold, did they not understand how little a fortune meant compared to human life?

  Annabel fought the pain, fought the onslaught of panic. Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. This was the ultimate test. No one could help her but her alone. She had to make it up that rock face. Or she would die. Die alone in the darkness.

  She thought of her sisters. If she didn’t get up that rock, she’d never see them again. She thought of Clay, the sense of safety she’d felt when she clung to him on horseback, his gentle touch as he tended to her blistered hands, the thrill of excitement that ran through her every time she looked at him.

  If she didn’t get up that rock, she’d never see him again. She would never have a chance to build on those new emotions he stirred in her, would never have a chance to discover if the attraction between them could lead to something true and lasting.

  She would never see another sunrise, would never feel the wind on her face again, would never see the ocean or the desert in spring bloom. She would die in this dark, dank, smelly cave with a fortune in gold right below her dangling feet.

  “I’m climbing up,” she called out. “Keep pulling the rope.”

  Flattening her body against the slippery stone like a lizard, Annabel eased upward. Her left foot found that tiny depression. Her right foot braced over the tiny protrusion. Gathering her strength, she lifted her left foot high, jammed the toe of her boot into the crevice and pulled with her arms, every muscle shaking with effort as she hauled herself up. She released her grip on the end of the aspen trunk and, for an instant poised in a precarious balance, extended her arms in the diver’s pose and crammed her body into the fissure.

  Her shoulders bashed against the rock. Her hips caught in the narrow passage, but she forced her way through, ignoring the abrasion against her skin, ignoring the bashes and knocks. Nothing could persuade her to pause until she was in daylight and fresh air.

  “Move the lamp out of the way,” she shouted. “I’m coming through.”

  Only when she could see the lit-up mine tunnel ahead, and caught her first glimpse of Clay peering into the fissure, did the panic that had taken hold of her recede. In those terrible moments in the cave, her greatest fear had been not seeing him again, and now a wave of relief propelled her into greater speed along the timber beam.

  She longed to feel his arms around her, longed to nestle against the solid strength of his body The light behind Clay turned him into a silhouette, and she could not see his expression. Did he feel the same? How stark had his fear for her safety been while she remained out of sight, how deep his relief on her safe return?

  Reaching out with one arm, Annabel could touch him, her fingertips grazing the locks of hair that tumbled across his forehead. That physical contact acted like a lightning rod that made her terror dissipate. Instead, a wild, gloating jubilation rose inside her. She’d done it! She had found gold. As Clay pulled her out through the fissure, it occurred to Annabel she’d answered her own question.

  Prospectors and miners who risked their lives in search of gold, did they not understand how little a fortune meant when compared to human life?

  Of course they did. Every miner understood the dangers. But the triumph of success was a potent drug. The moment one had a taste of it, the dangers became only a distant memory, the fear akin to an illness one must overcome. And she had.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clay crammed his shoulders into the narrow fissure, eased the girl out and swung her up to her feet. He could feel her trembling. Without thinking, he pulled her into his embrace and held her close, one hand sweeping up and down her back in a soothing gesture.

  She sagged against him and spoke in breathless relief. “I thought...for a moment I thought I would never get out...”

  “Hush.” He clutched her tight against him. She smelled of bat droppings and stale dampness, and Clay breathed in the smells, enjoying them because they meant she was out of danger and with him again.

  The girl mumbled against his chest. “Get me into the sun.”

  Clay bent to scoop her into his arms and twisted around to look at Mr. Hicks, who was standing like a ghost a few paces away, disappointment stamped on his brooding features.

  “You go first,” Clay told him. “Hold up a lantern. When you get to the entrance, pull the dead tree out of the way.”

  “Why?” Mr. Hicks protested. “You can push through with the kid.”

  Clay addressed the old man with unaccustomed harshness. “Can’t you see the kid is just about done in? Your joke about leaving him stranded in the cave was one step too far.”

  Mr. Hicks bristled but edged past, illuminating the way. Clay carried the girl out through the mine tunnel, ducking and turning sideways to avoid scraping any part of her against the rock walls. The last glimmer of sunlight formed a golden archway at the entrance. As soon as they stepped out into the open, the girl wriggled in his arms. “Put me down.”

  Reluctantly, Clay obeyed. The girl hurried along the cliff face to a smooth spot, leaned her back against the sun-warmed rock and tilted her face up toward the setting sun. Her lips were trembling, her skin pale, her lungs heaving.

  So frightened yet so brave. Something twisted in Clay’s chest as he watched her. He never wanted to see her put herself in danger like that again. He wanted to see her always in the sunshine, warm and safe, as she was now.

  The girl stood there for long minutes, drawing deep breaths, until the sun disappeared behind the hills and the light began to fade. Mr. Hicks
had gone into the kitchen, but now he strode back along the path, the heavy thud of his footsteps betraying his sense of defeat.

  “Is the kid all right?” the old man asked in a low voice.

  The girl opened her eyes. A smile spread on her face, banishing those lingering signs of terror. “I am all right.” She pulled one hand out of the thick glove and jabbed a forefinger at the old man. “But I have a good mind not to tell you what I found.”

  Mr. Hicks frowned. “You found nothing. That’s what you said.”

  “And that’s what I thought at first. But then I slipped on the rotting layer of bat droppings on the cave floor.” Her smile grew radiant. “There is gold—a thick seam of gold that runs like a creek along the bottom of the cave.” She pivoted on her big boots toward Clay. “Quickly. Find me a stick and I’ll draw you a picture.”

  Clay turned to break a sturdy twig from the dead oak that had shielded the mine entrance. Not waiting for him to complete the task, the girl ran off ahead. Clay and Mr. Hicks hurried after her to the gravel clearing.

  Brimming with excitement, the girl snatched the long stick from Clay and drew on the ground. “It starts about three paces after the opening, and twists to the right, like this...” She paused to take off the leather coat she’d borrowed from him and pulled a sheet of paper from the pouch tied around her waist.

  Pausing every now and then to refer to her scribbled notes, she went on drawing. “There are two parallel veins, each about two inches wide. One of them peters out after six feet. The other one widens to three inches, like this...”

  “You sure it’s gold, kid?” Mr. Hicks cut in. “Not pyrite?”

  Again, the girl reached into the pouch tied around her waist and rummaged inside. “I hacked away a tiny sample.” After a few moments, she gave up the search with a careless shrug. “I must have dropped it in the darkness. No matter,” she added and let go of the pouch. “It’s gold, all right.”

  Eyes shining, talking in rapid bursts, she completed the drawing on the ground, to illustrate the seam of gold she had found. Finished, she tossed away the stick, spread her arms wide and rushed up to Mr. Hicks.