A terrible sense of guilt settled over him. He’d ordered Annabel to stay out of the cave, but he had given no such ultimatum to Mr. Hicks. Everything the old man had done for him, all the years of friendship between them, haunted him now. He should have spoken about the affection between them, used it to dissuade Mr. Hicks from risking his life in the cave.
Hour upon hour Clay labored. His muscles screamed with fatigue and his hands burned with blisters. The smoke from the whale oil lamp stung his eyes and the rancid smell made him retch, but he refused to slow down.
The girl was helping him now. He hacked at the rubble. She collected the loose earth into a bucket and tipped it out of the way a few yards deeper inside the mine tunnel. At times, she brought him a cup of coffee or a strip of venison jerky or a honeyed slice of bread, to keep his energy from flagging.
“He will live, won’t he?” the girl said with a mix of hope and fear. “He has air. Even without water and food he can survive for days.”
Clay didn’t reply. He didn’t have the heart to point out that the landslide might have cut off the current of air from the fissure at the opposite end of the cave, or that an underground stream might have broken through, posing an even greater danger.
Every now and then, while he’d been digging at the rubble, Clay had stilled for a few seconds, to catch his breath and to allow his body a rest. He’d listened, breath held, ears strained, and he’d heard it—water running down the cliff on the other side of the rockfall. If an underground stream had burst its way through the cave roof, had it found an outlet to drain away, or was water slowly filling the cave?
Chapter Fourteen
“Is it day or night?” Clay asked.
Annabel tipped the gravel out of the bucket onto the growing heap at the far end of the tunnel and straightened. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ll go and see.”
She trundled out to the mine entrance. While they had been working, darkness had fallen and a new day had dawned and now the sun was sinking again behind the hills. She trundled back to Clay. “It’s evening.”
Bending to the damp rubble, she hoisted the shovel. Pain arrowed in her back and shoulders, and her hands were scraped raw. Her feet weighed a ton, making her steps drag. She no longer thought in terms of death or survival. All she could think of was the next swing of the shovel, the next bucketful of earth, the next step, the next inhale of breath.
But if Clay could keep going, so could she.
The sound of the pickaxe against the rock altered, no longer a dull pounding but a hollow clang.
“I’m through!” Clay called out. He bent to the gap and shouted, “Mr. Hicks, can you hear me?”
A muffled voice came back. “How could I not hear such hollering?”
Annabel closed her eyes tight. Tears of exhaustion and relief spilled in a warm trail down her cheeks. Thank you, God, she said in a silent prayer.
“Can you come over here?” Clay asked.
Annabel opened her eyes and saw him gesturing at her. She eased around the rocks and rubble that still covered the ground and halted beside him. He lifted the lantern to illuminate the opening. “Do you think you could crawl through?”
The gap was at waist height, on the straight side of the D-shaped entrance. A boulder filled the bottom of the D, and on top of it a huge stone slab stood at an angle against the wall, leaving a triangular hole about eighteen inches wide.
Annabel eased her hands into the hole and felt the passage. The narrow part was no more than three feet long. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll try.”
Ducking, she pushed into the opening. Arms. Head. Shoulders. Caught in the narrow space, she emptied her lungs and wriggled along. She was inside, all the way to her waist. The rough surface of the rock crushed her rib cage, but the strip of cloth she used to bind her breasts protected her skin.
Behind her, Clay spoke. “I’ll turn the bucket upside down and put it under your feet. It will give you an easier angle to push through.”
She heard the hollow clang of metal, and then Clay curled one hand around her left ankle and lifted her foot onto the bucket. She moved her other foot, shifted her weight onto the bucket and inched forward.
Her hips were the widest part of her body and she got stuck, but by now her head and arms were clear of the passage. She braced her elbows against the side of the boulder, using the leverage to gain another few inches.
“Take my feet,” she called out to Clay. “Push.”
She felt him grip her legs and shove her along. Her trousers ripped, exposing her hip bones. Her skin scraped raw. With one final push and a grunt of determination, she emerged out of the hole and slid to the ground, bumping into some large obstacle.
A yelp of pain echoed around the cave, but although her skin burned from the abrasion and every bone in her body felt crushed, Annabel knew she had not cried out. Slowly, letting her muscles recover from the strain, she scrambled to her feet.
“Don’t tread on me, kid,” Mr. Hicks said. “I can’t get up.”
In the faint light through the gap, she could see him stretched out on the cave floor, but there was a dark shadow over him. Careful to avoid encroaching upon him, Annabel spun around on her toes and stuck one arm into the gap she’d just forced her way through. “Give me the light,” she called out to Clay.
Clay passed her the lantern. She held it up and could not stifle the groan of despair. Only the top half of Mr. Hicks remained in sight. His legs were buried under a pile of fallen rocks.
“How is he?” Clay called out.
“He is...” Annabel bit back a sob “...alive.”
“Look around,” Clay said. “Can you see water flowing into the cave?”
“I’ll tend to him first.”
“Look around now.” Clay’s tone was sharp.
“Do as he says, kid,” Mr. Hicks cut in. “Drowning holds no appeal.”
Drowning? Only now did her ears pick out the steady trickling sound. With another cry of alarm, Annabel lifted the lantern high and eased her way past the piles of rubble and the huge stone slabs to inspect what remained of the cave.
In the far corner, a small waterfall gushed down the rock face to form a pond on the floor, but the water was seeping out again through a crack in the bottom of the cave and the pond did not seem to grow any larger.
“There is water coming in, but it flows out again,” Annabel called out, loud enough for Clay to hear.
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. She could no longer feel the current of fresh air against her face, and it appeared to her the air was getting stale. Fighting the onslaught of panic, Annabel set the lantern down by the injured man and went back to the gap.
“Give me the canteen.” She held her arm out, and Clay passed the leather-covered metal canteen to her.
Annabel returned to the old man and knelt beside him. “Are you thirsty?”
“I could use a drink, but I’d prefer whiskey.”
“Let’s start with water.” Annabel uncapped the canteen, slid one arm behind the old man’s neck and lifted him up to drink. When Mr. Hicks had drunk enough, she tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her shirt, dampened it and bathed his dusty face, talking quietly. “We’ll enlarge the hole, so that Clay can get in. He’ll clear the rubble from your legs, and we can get you out. There’ll be a doctor in Hillsboro.”
“It’s no use, kid.” The burly mine owner’s eyes glittered as he looked up at her. “My legs are crushed. Even if I made it out of here, I wouldn’t live. And there is too much rock for Clay to clear in time. Do you not notice, the air is going stale?”
“Don’t say that,” Annabel pleaded. “We must try.”
“I reckon not. No point in wasting the effort.” He gave her a faint smile. “Don’t fret over it, kid. Suits me fine. I’ll have a fine tomb, ful
l of gold, like them ancient kings of Egypt.”
Annabel stroked the old man’s brow. His skin was clammy, deathly pale. She could feel the tension in his body and knew he was fighting not to show his pain. His eyes met hers. He watched her for a moment in silence and then spoke softly. “That’s a woman’s touch if I ever felt one.”
Annabel nodded. The thought that had been weighing at the back of her mind broke free. “Mr. Hicks, I’m sorry for deceiving you. Do you think...do you believe a woman can jinx a mine?”
His face twisted into a rueful grimace. “In the old tin mines of Cornwall they believed so. If a miner’s wife came to the pithead to ask what he wanted for his supper, the whole shift might walk out. Or, if a miner chanced upon a woman on his way to work, likely as not he’d turn back and go home, instead of risking his life.”
“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to...”
Mr. Hicks lifted his arm to brush aside her apology, flinching with pain at the motion. “Don’t worry, girl. I think that kind of talk is nonsense. It is a relic of old times. I hold no truck with such superstitions. In America, women work their own mining claims, and some do a fine job of it. Seen it myself. Nevada. Californy.”
Silence fell, punctuated only by the old man’s labored breathing and the gushing of the small waterfall in the corner of the cave. Annabel tipped the canteen to dampen the cloth she’d torn from her shirt and mopped his brow again.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” she asked.
“Send Clay to fetch me the bottle of whiskey.”
Annabel nodded. “Anything else? Blankets? Food?”
“I have no appetite. But bring me my gun. I reckon I’ll just lie here, enjoying the idea of all that gold beneath me, and wait for my time to come. But I’d like to have my gun, in case I get bored with the waiting.”
Blinking back tears, Annabel got up and relayed the instructions to Clay.
“Bring candles, too,” the old man shouted out, then lowered his voice and spoke to Annabel. “I want you to take the lantern with you when you go. The other two broke when the roof collapsed. I’ll make do with candles.”
A few minutes later Clay returned. One by one, he passed through the gap a bottle of whiskey, a glass, a blanket and a pillow of hay stuffed into an empty flour sack.
Annabel slipped the pillow under the old man’s head and spread the blanket over him. She poured out a glass of whiskey and helped him to drink it. Then she sat down beside him, arms wrapped around her knees, and joined him in the waiting.
He turned his head to look at her. “When I go knocking on them pearly gates, you reckon they’ll let me through?”
“Or course they will. You are a good man.”
For a long while, they sat in silence. Mr. Hicks had two more glasses of whiskey. Then he spoke again, so low it took Annabel a moment to realize he was saying something.
“Her name was Sarah. Sarah Milford.”
Annabel held her breath. It was clear Mr. Hicks was talking more to himself than to her, and she did not wish to interrupt.
“We grew up together. I was poor, but my mother came from a good family, and from her I received an education. My father was a no-good storekeeper who drank every cent of profit he ever made.
“Sarah and I...we promised ourselves to each other. We were going to run away, but she got cold feet and worried how her folks would take it. She was an only child. So, being the fanciful young pup I was, I said I’d go off to Californy and get rich with gold. Then her parents would give us their blessing.”
“Is that why you wanted gold so badly?”
He held up the empty glass, and Annabel filled it. She’d propped his head up so he could drink without assistance, and now he took another sip, swirling the drink around his mouth before swallowing.
“I found gold, all right. Not even a year had passed when I filled my pan with pay dirt so rich there were more nuggets in my pan than gravel. I worked the claim for two months and took out a small fortune in gold.
“I had a tailor make me a fine broadcloth suit and I bought a pair of good horses, one for me and one as a gift for Sarah. Then I rode home. And when I got there, I learned she had married some fancy dude and taken off to New Orleans.”
Annabel hesitated. Mr. Hicks glanced up at her. It seemed he expected some kind of a prompt, so she gave it to him. “Sarah did not wait for you?”
“She did not. So, I took my gold, and I walked into the nearest saloon and got very drunk and sat down at the gambling table. By sunrise, I’d lost every cent of my gold and the pair of horses.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Still had the suit, though.”
Reaching out with a grunt of pain, he poured himself a shot of whiskey and downed it in one long swallow. “In a single day I’d lost the woman I loved and the fortune I’d found. It made me bitter. Set me against females.”
“Did you ever see her again? Ask her to explain?”
“I wanted to, but without the money...” Mr. Hicks glanced up from the corner of his eye. “That’s why I wanted to find the gold so badly. So I could hold my head high when I tracked her down and asked her why.”
Silence settled again. There was something oddly serene about sitting in the dark cave, with the soft trickle of water and the muted glow of the lantern. Annabel found herself dozing off, the tension and the lack of sleep and the physical effort of the past two days taking their toll.
“Does Clay know?”
She jolted to wakefulness. “What?”
“Does Clay know you’re a girl?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly.
The old man nodded. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. I guess I knew, too, but I just didn’t think of it, didn’t pay enough attention. Promise me, girl...” Brows raised, he looked up at her with a question in his eyes.
“Annabel,” she supplied. “My name is Annabel.”
“Promise me, Annabel, that you’ll do right by him. Don’t let him down the way my Sarah let me down. Clay’s never really known love, and he deserves some. He might be all grit and sandpaper on the surface, but he has a kind heart. Don’t take from him all he has to give and leave him with nothing but bitter memories.”
Annabel swallowed. There was something oddly prophetic in the old man’s words. However, because Clay was so reticent with his emotions, she had no idea what he thought of her. The attraction might be merely physical, the affection no more than friendship, and his protectiveness simply gallantry toward a female instead of proof that he truly cared for her.
But she was happy to give such a promise and be bound by it. “I would never hurt Clay on purpose,” she said quietly. “And I believe he would never hurt me.”
Mr. Hicks nodded, pressed his head into the makeshift pillow with a sigh. “I reckon it’s time for you to go now, girl. I have everything I need. My gold. My gun. A drop of whiskey and my memories. Don’t weep for me. I’m not worth it.”
Annabel knelt beside the old man and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. She knew he could feel her tears falling, and she made no effort to hide them. “Goodbye,” she said. “God be with you, and my love, and Clay’s, too.”
* * *
Exhausted, filled with grief and a sense of helplessness, Clay led Annabel out of the mine. Outside, the night had fallen. They did not talk much while they cooked a simple supper and settled down to sleep.
Autumn had turned the air cool and crisp. Clay could see Annabel shivering beneath her blanket. Without a word, he reached over and pulled her into the lee of his body. For the rest of the night, she slept curled up against him, her warmth like a shield that blunted the edge of his anguish. Clay merely dozed, unable to sleep despite his fatigue. Nerves taut, ears strained, he waited for a gunshot to echo deep within the mountainside.
Memories drifted through his mind. Five years ago he
’d ridden up to Mr. Hicks’s claim and the old man had taken him on as a partner. He could remember his initial reserve during those early months when the deaths of Billy and Lee had pushed him to take crazy risks in the hope of joining them.
Little by little, Mr. Hicks had won his trust. Clay recalled a thousand conversations by firelight—one-sided mostly, the old man rambling on about philosophy and history, giving Clay an education.
And now Mr. Hicks, too, would be gone, just like his parents and Billy and Lee had gone. Clay tightened his hold around the sleeping girl, seeking comfort in the feel of her in his arms. Would he dare let himself care? Would he be able to protect her, keep her safe, even while he let her flex her wings and join him as an equal partner in the mining camps?
Chapter Fifteen
When the first glow of sunrise painted the horizon with pink and gold, a gunshot boomed deep within the mountainside. Clay felt a sudden release of tension that left him numb. His lungs seemed to seize up, no longer drawing in air.
Annabel had been dozing. She came awake with a jolt. For an instant, she froze. Then she wriggled around in his arms and looked at him with grief-filled eyes.
“Was it...?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. “No more waiting. It’s over.”
Annabel pressed her face to his chest, fighting to suppress the tears.
“Hush,” Clay said. The emptiness inside him eased a little, as if consoling Annabel was thawing some of that cold, numb feeling that had settled over him. “It’s all right,” he told her softly. “Mr. Hicks called his time, chose the moment of his death. That’s more than most men can ask for.”
“I know,” she muttered against his shirt. “But it is so terribly sad.”
Bracing up on one elbow, Clay laid Annabel down on her back on the bedroll and leaned over her. With his other hand, he stroked her hair. “Cry it out,” he said. “Let your tears flow, for it is a good farewell for a man to have a woman weeping over him.”
From Runaway to Pregnant Bride Page 14