“We are rich,” she yelled and gave the old man one of those fleeting hugs. Then she turned to Clay and did the same with him. Pulling away before Clay had a chance to react, she began leaping about.
“We are rich! We have gold!”
The old man spoke with a mix of hope and doubt. “Kid, you’re not taunting me, paying me back for saying I’d leave you stranded in the cave? There really is gold in there?”
The girl did not reply. Whirling on her big boots, she danced in the twilight and burst into one of those sea shanties, making the words fit the occasion.
Golden here, golden there,
Golden almost everywhere.
Golden up and golden down.
Golden all around the ground.
“I’ll be damned.” A huge grin split the old man’s bearded face. Emitting a yell of triumph that echoed back from the cliffs, he launched into a jig, as clumsy as a dancing bear in a circus.
Clay stepped into the fray and seized the girl by the waist. Like quicksilver she was in his arms, and Clay told himself he’d best clasp her tight to his chest, for otherwise she might do herself harm with all that frantic leaping about.
* * *
She had done it! She had performed a perilous feat of courage and found a vein of gold! Annabel teetered on a log stump seat in the kitchen. Only a single lantern cut through the darkness, for they were low on lamp oil and wanted to save it for working in the mine. But what was darkness to her anyway? She’d ventured into a dank, dark cave that might have been a pit of rattlers, or an abyss leading all the way into the center of the earth.
“Go easy on the whiskey, kid,” Mr. Hicks said.
Annabel giggled. Kid. She’d fooled the old man. A hiccup caught in her throat. She’d tasted only one small glass of the fiery liquid, but it had been enough to make her head spin and melt away the last residue of fear inside her.
Too elated to sleep, the three of them had eaten a cold supper of bread and venison jerky and were now sitting at the kitchen table, celebrating with a bottle of whiskey that Mr. Hicks had dug up from the stores under the overhang.
“It would take too long to hack a passage to reach the cave,” Mr. Hicks said. “We’ll have to blast our way through.” He smiled at her, like a proud parent. “I’ll teach the kid to use black powder and set a fuse.”
“No,” Clay said. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” Annabel waved one arm at him, the pleasant glow of whiskey flowing through her veins. “I can do it. I can do a-ny-thing.”
“With gunpowder you could even maim yourself or get killed.” Clay’s tone rang with irony.
“The kid is a quick learner.”
Clay shook his head. “I said no.”
Mr. Hicks spoke in a conciliatory tone. “Think about it, Clay. The winter will be here soon. We need to buy two more horses. The kid will need a saddle, and a warm coat and boots. If we spend weeks hacking through the rock, we won’t have time to build a cabin, and we won’t have enough money to pay for things.”
Clay mulled it over. “It’s too dangerous. A spark can ignite the powder, and boom! No more kid. I’ll not allow it.”
“Not allow it?” Annabel echoed. “You’ll not allow it?” She lolled back in the seat and would have lost her balance if Clay hadn’t reached out to grab her by the elbow.
“Excuse me, Mr. Collier,” she said tartly, shaking off his supporting hand. “I do not require your permission to do anything.” She was no longer Scrappy the deckhand, the youngest of the Fairfax sisters, the one who had to take orders. For the first time in her life, she had the chance to be the captain of the ship—even more so than she’d been as a shoeshine boy, for now she had a crew to command.
She turned her attention to Mr. Hicks. “Sir, I’ll be happy to blast you a hole all the way to the center of the universe. You’ll just have to show me how it’s done.”
* * *
Clay seethed in silence on the log stump seat. Had the girl switched off that razor-sharp mind of hers? Did she not understand the dangers? And Mr. Hicks, he just sat there, egging her on. Perhaps he should say it, Clay thought. Just blurt out that the kid was a girl.
He recalled how she’d felt pressed against him a moment ago, warm and vibrant and full of life. Icy fear enveloped him as he imagined the possibility of stones raining down on her, imagined the sight of blood and broken bones.
He could not let it happen.
He could not allow her to risk her life.
And if an order to stay away from explosives didn’t work, maybe a bit of blackmail might achieve a better result. Clay pushed to his feet. “I’ll move the dead tree back to hide the mine entrance. The kid can help.” He picked up the lantern from the table and set off down the path.
Mr. Hicks, enthralled by the prospect of riches, made no protest that the task could wait until daylight. The girl, eager as always to prove her worth, bounced up and hurried along. In the darkness, Clay could feel her fingers gripping his elbow, in search of support and balance.
At the cave entrance, Clay halted, propelled the girl into the mouth of the tunnel and went in after her. He ducked to deposit the lantern on the floor and seized her by the upper arms, pressing her back against the rough rock wall.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” His voice was harsh.
“What?” the girl said. She tipped her head back, and the dull glow of the lantern by their feet made her features look mysterious and her eyes dark and deep, full of feminine allure.
Clay eased closer. “That your name is Annabel. Not Andrew.”
“So?” Her dainty eyebrows arched. “I’m a girl. What difference does it make?”
Promise you’ll stay out of the cave, or I’ll tell Mr. Hicks and he’ll toss you down the hill, Clay was about to say. But as he stared down at her face, the words scattered in his mind, like the autumn leaves scattered in the night breeze outside. Instead, he bent his head toward her. “This,” he murmured, and settled his mouth on hers.
He could feel the girl’s sharp intake of breath, could sense the shock that rippled along the length of her as he pressed his body against hers. Even through the sudden surge of passion that clouded his thinking, he could smell the scent of floral soap on her, could taste a hint of coffee on her lips, combined with the mellow burn of good whiskey.
Years ago, Clay had figured out that his emotions ran too deep to allow for casual intimacies. On the few occasions he’d paid for the company of a whore, he’d never allowed himself the make-believe that a tumble in the bed of a working girl was anything more than scratching an itch.
But now the recklessness from whiskey and the pent-up anger at the way the girl kept defying his orders combined into a volatile mix that made him forget every caution, ignore every warning, override every hesitation.
Again and again, he slanted his mouth across the girl’s with a hungry demand. After that first startled reaction, she did not resist. Her lips parted, and she tipped her head back, offering him access. The softness of her lips, the eagerness of her yielding, the feel of her supple body in his arms made Clay forget the message of danger he had intended to convey with the kiss.
Soon he’d have to stop, but then he’d have to say something, explain his actions. Unable to justify what he’d done, even to himself, Clay finally found the strength to lift his head and draw apart from the girl. His heart was hammering, his muscles quivering, his breathing ragged.
“This,” he said roughly. “This is what difference it makes you’re a girl.” Hiding his turmoil by turning around to face the darkness, Clay picked up the lantern from the ground. He took the girl’s hand in his and led her out of the tunnel.
Not a single word passed between them as they walked back to the kitchen. The girl seemed in a trance, her lips trembling, her eyes wide and shining. Every
step, Clay had to resist the temptation to whirl about and haul her back into the privacy of the mine tunnel and resume what he’d barely had the strength to stop.
Clay settled the girl at the table opposite to Mr. Hicks, who was now talking to himself, listing everything he would buy with the gold. With a quick glance at the old man, to make sure he was not listening, Clay bent toward the girl.
“That was the whiskey ruling our actions,” he said quietly. “And the euphoria of surviving danger. Don’t let it worry you,” he added, his tone strained at the warning he knew applied to him just as much as it might apply to her. “In fact, best you forget it ever happened, and I’ll do the same.”
* * *
Annabel lay huddled up on the bedroll in the cavern. Despite the chill of the night, heat enveloped her, as if she had remained too long in the sun. Beside her, Clay slept with his back toward her.
Trying not to make a sound, Annabel shifted beneath the blanket and touched her fingertips to her lips. She traced the shape of her mouth, recalling the sensations. She’d never been kissed before. Not like that, on the lips, with hunger and passion. Her only points of comparison were the friendly pecks on the cheek she’d received from Mama or Papa and her sisters.
She’d expected a kiss to be cool and moist, like lips pressing against a glass of water. Instead, it had been warm and vibrant, with textures to it—the brush of Clay’s dry, slightly chapped lips over hers, the scrape of his beard stubble against her skin, the slick slide of mouth on mouth when he’d tempted her into parting her lips.
It’s best you forget it ever happened, Clay had told her. Annabel suppressed a groan at such masculine ignorance. How could she ever forget? Surely, for every girl, every woman, their first kiss remained branded in their memory, one of the rites of passage into womanhood.
She must have made a sound, for Clay rolled over on the hard earth floor. The moon was out, and she could see his features, could see the faint glint of his open eyes and knew he was looking at her. During the day, Annabel rarely saw him without a hat, but now a tumble of brown curls framed his face.
“Are you all right?” Clay whispered softly.
Annabel longed to reach over and rake her fingers into his hair. For a moment, she considered giving in to the temptation. She wanted him to kiss her again, wanted to feel those fiery sensations the kiss had awakened in her body. Frightened by her brazen thoughts, Annabel curled up beneath the blankets, like a hedgehog rolling into a protective ball. “I’m fine,” she whispered back.
For a moment, Clay contemplated her, the moonlight glinting in his green eyes, like a reflection on a pond. Then he nodded and turned away again.
So, he’d not been sleeping either, Annabel thought. Echoes of her fears from a few days ago pealed in her mind. It would be all too easy for a man and woman, isolated in the remote mining camp, to forget about the world outside. But for a woman, a virtue lost was lost forever. No such constraints applied to a man.
Clay was right, she decided with a sigh. It was best she forgot the kiss ever happened. But as Annabel closed her eyes and let fatigue overcome the tensions of the day, lulling her into sleep, she knew that she never would.
* * *
For two days, Clay wrestled with conflicting impulses. He didn’t want the girl anywhere near explosives. But how could he stop her? He knew the answer. He had to tell the old man the kid was a girl, and Mr. Hicks would pack her off down the hill so fast the bowler hat would finally become unstuck from her head. And yet, he found himself unable to betray her secret and say goodbye to her.
Shirtless, water-soaked trousers clinging to his legs, Clay left the rocker box by the creek and walked up to the clearing. He found the girl and Mr. Hicks crouched over a big rock. The whirr of the hand drill against stone told Clay what they were doing even before he got close enough to watch.
“When you’ve finished drilling the hole, you pack it with gunpowder, like this.” Mr. Hicks was using a handful of cornmeal to demonstrate. “And then you push in a metal needle, like this.”
“Don’t forget to tell the kid that if the needle makes a spark the gunpowder will explode and he’ll blow himself to pieces,” Clay cut in. That’s how Lee had gone. Even now, almost six years later, nausea welled up inside Clay as he recalled the sound of the explosion and the smell of burning flesh.
The old man scowled. “We’ll use a copper needle. There’ll be no spark.” He turned back to his demonstration. “Then you pull out the needle and insert a fuse into the hole where the needle was, like this.” He fiddled about with a hickory ramming rod, using a piece of rawhide cord in place of a fuse.
“Then you cover the gunpowder with a dollop of mud to create a plug and let it dry. A strong plug is needed to confine the expanding gases that create the force of the blast.”
The old man glanced up at Clay, his expression defiant. “When you have finished all the charges, you light the fuses and walk away and wait for the black powder to do its job.”
The girl jumped up to her feet and sauntered over to Clay. Taking both his hands in hers, she looked up at him with those big amber eyes. “Please,” she said. “I want to do it, and I know that I can. Instead of trying to stop me, can’t you help? Teach me how to do it and remain safe.”
Clay felt his breath catch as he looked down into her expectant face. With enough care and preparation, the risk would be minimal. And he could tell how much the girl wanted to do it, how much it meant to her to contribute to their success.
Ever since that impulsive, whiskey-driven kiss, the memory of her lips against his had refused to leave him in peace. Now his body quickened. His heart was beating too fast, his every sense heightened. He wanted to kiss her again, and almost gave in to the temptation, despite Mr. Hicks crouching no more than ten paces away, his sharp eyes watching them.
Shows the danger of casual intimacies, Clay thought with a flash of wry humor. They can scramble a man’s mind, make him think with the basement part of his anatomy when he should be thinking with the attic.
“All right,” he said with a resigned sigh. He brushed his thumbs over the back of the girl’s fingers, enjoying the way her small hands fitted into his. “You can drill the holes and set the charges. But you can’t light the fuses. I’ll take care of that.”
* * *
Annabel grew adept at crawling into the cave and spent hours working with the hand drill, in turn banging the end of the drill shaft with a hammer and rotating the handle to create a series of holes in the rock.
They were laying the charges in a horizontal line along the fissure. Clay was able to take care of the first two holes, reaching in from the mine tunnel, and she had to drill the final three, awkwardly balanced on the aspen trunk.
Sometimes, as they labored together, their bodies bumped. The physical contact made Annabel edgy and restless. At the same time she felt a new shyness in Clay’s presence. She tried to ignore the sensations he created in her, tried to push aside the memory of how he’d kissed her. It was best forgotten, at least for now. When working with explosives, one needed a cool head and steady hands.
“We’ll set the fuses now,” Clay told her when they had completed the task of drilling the holes. “And then we’ll cover the powder with mud and let it dry. When I’m ready to light the fuses, I want you to go down to the creek and stand next to the rocker box and not come up again until I fetch you.”
“Clay, hold your horses a mite,” Mr. Hicks cut in.
Perhaps the darkness of the mine tunnel made her ears more sensitive to nuances, Annabel thought, for she could hear an undertone of guilt in the old man’s voice.
“What is it?” Clay asked tersely.
“We don’t have much fuse wire left.”
Annabel had learned the men used the Safety Fuze invented by William Bickford fifty years ago. Ordinary fuses could burn at an unpr
edictable rate, could break or be left smoldering, particularly if exposed to damp.
The Bickford Safety Fuze was waterproof, did not break or deteriorate, and burned at the steady rate of thirty seconds per foot, allowing the miners to know exactly how long they had to get out of the way before the charge went off.
“Let me see how much there is left,” Clay said.
Annabel eased closer to him. Clay reached for what Mr. Hicks was holding out to him and inspected the coil of fuse wire in the dull light of the lantern.
“Did you know all along?” Clay’s tone was grim.
Mr. Hicks did not reply. The silence spoke for itself.
Clay spun around, boot heels grating against the ground, and strode off. Annabel stared after him as he disappeared into the darkness, trailing one hand along the rock wall to guide his way since he carried no lantern. She longed to go after him but chose to remain, for out of the pair of them Mr. Hicks was the more likely to provide answers.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well...” The old man’s tone was evasive. “It’s nothing, really. Only that we have less than ten feet of fuse wire left.”
Ten feet. Five holes. Annabel figured it out in her mind. At a burn rate of thirty seconds per foot, whoever lit the fuses would have less than one minute to get away to safety before the gunpowder went off.
* * *
Annabel found Clay crushing ore at the stone slab. When he saw her approach, he lowered the sledgehammer. “No,” he said, even before she’d opened her mouth.
“A minute is quite a long time,” she pointed out.
“A minute is nothing when you’re talking about the difference between living and dying.”
He bent to place another piece of ore onto the stone. The autumn sun was still hot, but the air felt fresher now, and in the forest the aspens and oaks blazed in hues of red and gold.
“Keep out of the way,” Clay warned her. “The stone chips fly about.”
From Runaway to Pregnant Bride Page 11