At the reception desk a lanky, brown-haired man around forty, wearing a black vest over a white shirt, was playing solitaire. Clay marched up to him.
“I’m looking for Art Langley.”
The man put the cards down. “You’ve found him.”
“I’ve come to inquire about mining claims.”
The man’s eyebrows went up. “You want to locate?”
Clay’s mood sank. Judging by the recorder’s tone of surprise, the district was all played out. “Haven’t been to look around yet,” Clay explained. “I thought you might be able to steer me to the best prospects.”
The man reached down and slapped a stack of documents on the counter. “I don’t allow overlapping claims. These have lapsed. Go and take a look, come back to tell me which one you want. Or, if you want to trust Lady Luck, pick one now.”
Clay rifled through the pack of location notices. A man staked a claim on the ground, then filled a form to indicate the location of his claim and paid a fee to record it. If a man abandoned the mine, the claim lapsed and was open to others.
Art Langley tossed another folded piece of paper on the counter. “I have also a patented claim, if you prefer owning the land at your diggings. The owner died a few months back, and the deed came to me in payment of debts.”
Clay inspected the deed.
High Hopes Mine.
Owner Sam Renner.
“Any gold in the ground?” he asked.
Art Langley shook his shoulders in a gesture that attempted to turn bad news into a promising prospect. “Sam took out a big nugget seven years ago. He got injured and could dig no more. He leased the mine a few times, but those men found nothing and moved on. It’s good land, full twenty acres of it. There’s a creek running through and enough grazing for a few horses.”
Clay put down the mine deed. “How much?”
“I’ll give you the government price. Five dollars an acre.”
Clay emptied his pockets, counted out ninety-five dollars, including the small change. “Can I owe you five?” he asked.
Langley stirred the pile of money with his forefinger. “What about tools and grub?”
“I have all the tools I need, and I can hunt to eat.”
The claims recorder took out a silver fountain pen, uncapped it and lined up the mine deed on the counter. “What’s the name?”
“Clay Collier.”
Langley added the name to the deed and wrote out a separate bill of sale. “You can owe me fifty,” he said. “No interest. A year to pay.”
Clay contemplated the lanky businessman. “Why?”
“Because you seem like a hardworking miner, and this town needs good men.” Langley gave him a wry smile. “And because I’m curious to find out what brings you here.”
* * *
The smell of laundry soap hit Annabel’s nostrils. She gritted her teeth to hold down the nausea. The smile she gave to the customer may have been more like a grimace, but at least she didn’t make gagging sounds. “Anything else, Mrs. Perkins?” Annabel asked.
The pretty blonde widow gave her a curious look. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I stubbed my toe beneath the counter,” Annabel blurted out. “It hurts like the blazes.”
Mrs. Perkins made comforting noises, and Annabel went on filling the grocery order. It was five weeks since she’d arrived in Gold Crossing. Thanksgiving was over, and soon it would be Christmas. It should have been the season for joy, but loneliness and worry overshadowed Annabel’s existence.
Both to have something to do and to demonstrate her independence, she had taken a job at the mercantile. A man named Gus Osborn and his fifteen-year-old son, Gus Junior, ran the business. However, Art Langley, who owned the store, had decided lady customers might be more comfortable with a female clerk when purchasing personal items.
Annabel waved Mrs. Perkins off on her way and hurried to the storage room in the rear of the building. She collapsed on a crate of milk tins and pressed the flat of her palm to her stomach. No longer could she ignore the signs. Every strong smell sent her retching. Cigarette smoke. A dog scurrying by. Cooking. Meat, onions, fish. Everything.
For two weeks, she’d prayed her period was merely late, but now she accepted it would not come at all. For she was going to have a baby. Another wave of nausea hit her as she caught a whiff of Mr. Osborn’s boot polish through the open doorway.
“Are you all right, Annabel?”
“I’m fine, fine. Stubbed my toe.”
Lies. Clay hated them, and now she would need to keep lying, to protect her secret as long as she could. It must have happened that last night in Hillsboro, when Clay came to say goodbye to her.
If only she knew how to reach him, she could send a message and he would come. But she had no way of knowing where he’d gone. One day, you’ll come for me, and I’ll be waiting, she had told him, defiant with the certainty of her young love. But would he? Would he ever come? And if he did, would it be too late?
With a flash of intuition, Annabel guessed what must have happened between Mr. Hicks and his Sarah. She too must have waited. Waited and waited, counting days, watching her waistline expand beneath her gown. Waited and waited, until she could no longer hide her pregnancy. Until she could no longer wait.
* * *
Clay found the site of his mine, inspected the abandoned tunnels. In his mind, a stubborn, crazy hope sparked to life. Annabel had promised to wait for him. If he found gold, the terrible dilemma between keeping her safe and having her beside him would go away.
With a fevered obsession, Clay set to work. Day and night, he labored, barely pausing to eat or sleep, let alone to cook or hunt for food. His muscles grew lean and wiry. The skin on his hands bled and toughened. His hair turned into a shaggy mane. A thick beard covered his jaw.
He wasted no time on building a cabin but slept in the mine, a rabbit warren of short tunnels in the hillside. Sometimes, when the underground darkness got to him, he slept with the horse and mule under the tarpaulin canopy he’d erected outside.
Bucketful after bucketful of dirt he hauled out, looking for the glint of gold. It was a reef claim, where the forces of nature had broken down the lode but the rains had yet to wash the gold down the mountain into the creeks. If he found nuggets, they might be large and clustered with many more.
Weeks turned into months. Winter added cold to the hardships, for he didn’t take the time to collect enough firewood to burn. On his stomach the skin stretched taut over a line of ribs. His clothing wore to rags. On his boots, the toes poked through.
Sometimes, when Clay crawled beneath a blanket for a few hours of rest, despair and loneliness pressed down upon him. Had he been wrong about Annabel? Would she have endured? How much brighter would his days be with her by his side? How much easier his nights? He should have let her decide for herself.
Then he woke again, and certainty filled him that he’d done the right thing. There was no way he could have asked Annabel to join him at the mine. The life was too hard on a woman. Without a cabin, she might not have survived the winter months.
* * *
Annabel pulled the fabric of her loose-fitting dress tight to display the rounded bump of her belly and braced herself against Charlotte’s reaction. Miranda was away in Wyoming, inspecting some ranching land her husband owned.
“You...you’re with child.” Charlotte collapsed into a padded wingback chair.
They were in Miranda’s house. The rooms were fully furnished now, with heavy pieces in Mexican style, ordered from the craftsmen in Tucson. Cousin Gareth had returned to Merlin’s Leap three months ago. On his way through New York, he had promised to visit Colin and Liza and give them enough money to travel out to the West, or to build a more comfortable life in the East, as they chose.
Charlot
te recovered from the shock of seeing the evidence of her younger sister’s disgrace. “The father is that miner you told us about...?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he? Does he know? When...?”
“He doesn’t know about the child, and I have no way of contacting him. The baby is due in July.” Annabel spoke without emotion. She’d worried so much her fears were all frayed away, like fabric worn through.
“July? That is only four months away.” Charlotte pressed her hand to the slight rise of her own stomach. “You’ll be the first of us...and not married.” She stared at Annabel. “You can’t have a baby out of wedlock. Think of the scandal. Think of Papa’s reputation.”
Annabel hung her head. She had tried to ignore the prospect of public disgrace. “I’ve managed to keep it hidden until now. Maybe a bit longer...”
Charlotte frowned. “Scrappy, you may be able to hide your pregnancy under loose clothing, but there is no way to hide a baby.” She jumped up from the chair and wrapped her arms around Annabel. “Oh, Scrappy, what are we to do?”
The warmth of her sister’s embrace eased Annabel’s despair. She’d been taking her independence too far. What are we to do? Charlotte had said, making her problem shared. Annabel lifted her chin. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
“Is there any chance your young man might come for you?”
“I thought he would...but time is running out.”
“Poor Scrappy,” Charlotte said. She cradled Annabel to her chest and stroked her hair in a soothing gesture. When she spoke, her voice was very gentle. “You know what you have to do, don’t you, Scrappy?”
“I want to stay here and wait for Clay,” Annabel muttered, but she knew the words were those of a petulant child. “I promised.”
Charlotte sighed, a deep whoosh out of her chest. “But you know you can’t wait forever, don’t you? Perhaps another month or two, but no more than that.”
Reluctantly, Annabel nodded. She spoke with her voice muffled against the collar of Charlotte’s gown. “I know. I must either marry, or go back to Boston and pretend to be a widow. Otherwise I’ll besmirch Papa’s memory and ruin the reputation of the whole family, including the children yet to be born.”
“I am sorry.” Charlotte clutched Annabel’s shoulders, urging her to look up. “I’m proud of you, Scrappy, for facing the situation like a responsible adult. I wish we could indulge you, but this is too serious, and there really is no other choice. As Papa would say, you’ve made your berth and now you’ll have to roll around in it and feel all the lumps.”
“Can’t we wait?” Annabel pleaded. “A few more weeks?”
Pity shadowed Charlotte’s features. “I’m sorry, Scrappy. Cousin Gareth is your legal guardian now. I must write to him at once. I can’t put the information into a telegram for others to see, but he’ll be able to telegraph his reply.” Charlotte eased out of the embrace and took a step back. “It will be up to him how long you can wait before you make your choice. You said it yourself—your only options are to marry or to return to Boston and pretend to be a widow.”
* * *
As Clay’s strength began to wane through cold and the lack of nourishment, restless dreams disturbed his sleep. He dreamed of his parents, of a burning wagon. He dreamed of Billy and Lee. He dreamed of Mr. Hicks.
“Women,” the old man said in his booming voice. “They promise you paradise, but they give you hell. She won’t wait. Just like my Sarah, she won’t wait. You’ll see.”
Occasionally, another miner or a prospector passed by.
“You’re turning into Sam Renner,” Clay heard one mutter.
Sam Renner had been a madman, he’d been told. Clay didn’t care. Day after day, week after week, month after month, he kept digging. Exhaustion made his hands unsteady. His eyesight dimmed. Barely able to stand up on his feet, he lifted the pickaxe and struck the rocky ground, again and again, until one cold spring morning the sharp point of the tool glanced from a stone and pierced his leg.
The pain arrowed up his shin. Clay jerked the pickaxe free, lifted the tool high and struck the ground once more. His head swam. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, knocking over his coal oil lantern. The glass broke, and the flames flared up in a whoosh, for an instant making the mine tunnel glow like the fires of hell.
Then darkness fell. Dazed, only half-conscious, Clay crawled along the tunnel on his belly, dragging his injured leg against the uneven ground. There’d been no crack of bone, he told himself. It was only a flesh wound, with the sharp point of the pickaxe tearing through the muscle. But he could have smashed the bone, and the coal oil could have splashed over him, setting him aflame.
What was he doing?
Was he trying to kill himself?
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Clay crawled out into the daylight. His threadbare coat tore from scraping against the ground. The skin on his hands and elbows bled from the effort. When he reached the entrance, he braced up on his arms and inhaled the crisp morning air. In the distance, he could see sunshine glinting on the hilltops, melting away the snow. By the creek, birds were chirping, ready to build their nests.
Slowly, Clay let the truth penetrate his mind. Perhaps subconsciously he had been trying to work himself to death. Because life without Annabel was no life at all. A great weight seemed to roll off his shoulders as he admitted how misguided he had been, how wrong. It is better to take risks and be together than to be safe and be alone, Annabel had told him, and she had been right.
Gathering his strength, Clay stumbled to his feet and staggered down the hillside to the tarpaulin canopy, where the horse and mule greeted him with a friendly whinny. Clay stroked the flank of the buckskin, relishing the connection to something living.
Annabel.
Annabel.
He said her name out loud, the sound drifting away on the cool mountain breeze. He should have had more faith in her. He should have trusted her love, as she had trusted his, believing he would go and find her.
Limping, Clay left the animals beneath the shelter and made his way to the creek, where he had cleared a site for a bonfire, with a pair of flat stones for seating. He put water on the boil and searched out clean rags to dress the wound in his leg.
While he tended to his injury, emotions welled up in him. He loved Annabel. She loved him. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else should be allowed to matter. As soon as his leg healed and the spring banished the last of the winter, he would go for her. They would be together, as long as they both lived.
Calmer now, feeling at peace, Clay had some breakfast and settled down to sleep. Hours later, he woke up refreshed. As the days went by and his leg healed, he returned into the mine, but his labors were no longer fevered. He was a miner working at his profession, not a man with an obsession, hoping to purchase happiness with riches dug up from the earth.
One evening in early May, just when Clay was about to quit and cook his supper, his pickaxe struck something that gave the clang of metal, a sharper sound than the pounding of the tool against the stony ground. Sinking to his knees, Clay scooped away the loose earth with his bare hands. The dull gleam of gold shone beneath his fingers. He kept brushing the dirt aside until he had uncovered a round nugget the size of a small cannonball.
He scrambled to his feet, dug with a shovel. Clang. He fell to his knees again. Another nugget, as big as his fist. The fever Clay had thought already conquered infected him anew. Frantic now, he attacked the ground beneath him, ignoring the pain in his leg, ignoring the strain in his muscles.
By the time exhaustion forced him to halt his labors, he had unearthed six large nuggets buried together in the dirt, like a cluster of eggs in the nest of some huge, long-forgotten, gold-laying bird.
In awe, Clay studied his hoard in the lantern light. He ran his fingers over the roughly text
ured surface of the largest nugget. In his mind, he saw a house, with a white picket fence and flowers blooming in the yard. He stroked another nugget, saw a trip to the East, to visit Annabel’s home, perhaps a fine wedding with Gareth Fairfax giving her away. Touching each nugget in turn, he imagined the comfort and security they would bring—clothes, furniture, horses and carriages, doctors and medicines.
For an instant, regret filled him that Annabel wasn’t there, to share the triumph of the discovery with him, the way a partner should be able to do. He would make it up to her. He would polish up the nuggets and take them to her, like a wedding gift.
As Clay carried his gold out into the evening twilight, euphoria held him in a firm grip. He’d already accepted he needed Annabel in his life, no matter what the hardships, but now he had the means to provide for her. Was this how a man felt when he knew all his dreams were about to come true?
* * *
Clay rode down the street in Gold Crossing, the pack mule trailing behind the buckskin. He’d washed and shaved and done his best to tidy up his ragged clothing. The mule carried half a man’s weight in gold. Thirty thousand dollars, Clay reckoned. Not enough to buy a mansion by the ocean or employ an army of servants, but enough to keep Annabel safe, and the mine might produce more.
The sun was low in the sky, the air warm and sweet with a spring breeze. In the desert, the flowers were in full bloom. A good time for a wedding, Clay thought. He reined in outside the Imperial Hotel but remained in the saddle. A boy of around ten squatted by the water trough, poking at a lizard with a stick, a cruel smirk of fascination on his freckled face.
“Do you know where I could find a lady called Annabel Fairfax?” Clay asked.
The boy looked up and wiped his runny nose with his sleeve. “She ain’t called Fairfax no more. She is married now.” The boy pointed with his stick. “They own the mercantile and the house next door to it. Over there.”
Married?
From Runaway to Pregnant Bride Page 23