Carina put a hand to her chest and strutted. “And why not? Haven’t I the DiGratia good fortune?” She cocked her chin and tossed back her hair. “Perhaps I should dig a hole myself, as I, too, was put out of my house.”
“Perhaps you should. But then you’d have to hire men to work it and grubstake them to boot.”
Carina waved a hand through the air. “With my luck, they’ll grubstake me.”
“Grubstake? You’re not thinking of deserting me?”
Carina spun at Berkley Beck’s words, at once subduing her manner as he climbed the steps. It was one thing to prance before Mae, another altogether for Mr. Beck. “I was making a jest, Mr. Beck.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He smiled. “I came to say I’ll be out of town several days, and I was hoping to leave the shop in your hands, so to speak.”
“Of course. But what can I do without you there?”
“Just keep track of anything that comes in, and keep me alive to any new possibilities. I’ll surely be back by Wednesday.” He smoothed a hand over his hair. “I’ll leave some small tasks for you at my desk.”
Carina nodded as he left, but her mind was not on his small tasks. An uneasy feeling started inside. She should not have told him about searching Quillan’s records. If Quillan Shepard knew she had involved Berkley Beck, he might prove more frightening yet. The look in his eyes …
“You swallowed the goat?” Mae leaned forward in her chair, causing a creaky complaint from the old rope seat.
The tone of his voice and the underlying power, the menace of his silence …”He frightens me.”
“Berkley Beck? He’s harmless.”
Carina jolted. She had spoken without thinking, and it had not been to Mr. Beck she referred.
Mae continued, oblivious. “He thinks a lot of himself. Still, he’ll likely do all right. Wouldn’t be a bad match.”
Carina frowned. “I’m not looking for a match, good or bad.”
“Well, you sure couldn’t tell it by Berkley Beck. He’s an eye for you and no mistake.”
Carina drew herself up straight. “Our relationship is business.”
Mae rocked back and folded her arms across her bosom. “Hmm.”
Quillan sat, unmoving, behind Cain Bradley as the old man jammed his crutch into the ground like a bishop’s crook and drew his bushy brows together into a hedge. “What do you mean, it’s gone?” Cain moved his pale eyes from one face to another.
D.C. met the gaze, then glanced off. “Just that, Daddy. It wasn’t a vein or even a pocket, just a thin shelf and it’s all used up.”
So much for hope. Quillan had heard the same too many times to recall. Either a hole never reached ore, or it played out too soon. Crystal had too few rich strikes to hold on for long. Men were jumping to Leadville like fleas from one dog to the next.
“You’re tellin’ me there’s no more ore in the Boundless Mine? No more a’tall?”
The boy shook his head, glum as a soaked marmot, and the two men behind him confirmed it with their own gloomy faces. Quillan hurt for his friend. This was not the sort of news a man took easily.
Cain leaned on the crutch, suddenly older than he’d been. “Well, maybe you just dug through the first part. What it wants is to go deeper, don’t ya know.”
The thin man behind D.C. raised splayed fingers. “We dug sixty feet to find the first ore, and it wasn’t good grade anyhow. It’s not worth searchin’ deeper.”
“Not worth—” Cain shook his head. “All that work, and me losin’ my leg. And it’s not worth searchin’ deeper?”
“I’m sorry, Cain. You can keep diggin’ if you want to. The mine’s two-fourths yours and the boy’s. But I want out. I’ll sell you my share, or I’ll sell it in town.”
“Sell it! You said it was worthless!”
Slow Jim shrugged. “It may and it may not be. I’m just tired of digging that hole. I’ve lost my faith in it, and when a man’s lost his faith, the tunnel’s too long and dark to make sense of it.”
“So you’re quittin’.”
“No.” Slow Jim stuffed his pockets with his hands. “I’m sellin’ my share and goin’ to work for Joe Turner. He’s hit it rich. Some of the richest ore yet.” He gave a crooked grin. “The DiGratia woman found it for him by putting him out of his room.”
Quillan stirred. What was this? More meddling by that woman.
Cain sagged. “Well, what is it you want for your share, worthless as it is?”
“Eight hundred dollars, gold dust.”
“Eight hundred!” The blood vessels stood out in Cain’s forehead.
Slow Jim reddened. “That’s what it’ll cost me to jump in with Joe.”
“Well, I hope you break your neck jumpin’. I don’t have eight hundred dollars gold dust or horse manure. And you know it!”
Slow Jim looked uncomfortably at his companion. “Morty, here, wants the same. He’s comin’ with me.”
Cain’s throat worked up and down, but no sound came out. His face went gray, almost matching the pale blue eyes. “That right, Mort? You, too? After all we been through?”
“It don’t make sense to stay, Cain. The hole’s no good.”
“You’re askin’ eight hundred, too?”
“Andrews got forty thousand for his. It’s just down the way.”
“His is producing.” Quillan’s voice was low and flat. “And that price was for the whole works, the buildings and machinery and proven assays.”
The two men looked past Cain to meet Quillan’s gaze. “There’s greenhorns who’ll buy our shares, none the wiser.”
“And leave Cain to explain?”
Slow Jim colored again. Mortimer Smith shrugged one shoulder in eloquent embarrassment. They knew what it would do to Cain to be saddled with newcomers in a mine with no ore. Mortimer reached a supplicating hand. “You can sell out, too, Cain.”
“And go where?” Cain wheezed the words, too used up to care.
Quillan stood up from the crate. “I’ll give you eight hundred for both shares together, cash or gold dust. You can go in halves on a share of Turner’s hole.”
Cain’s mouth gaped.
“But you’re not a miner,” D.C. started to argue.
Quillan ignored them both. “It’s the best offer you’ll get—honestly, anyway. Mort? Slow Jim?”
The two men conferred with their eyes, then sighed. “Eight hundred for both. We’ll likely have enough for a second share before the month’s out.”
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch you the money.”
“Dust if you got it. Joe’s wantin’ dust.”
Quillan pressed the hat to his head and went out. He hadn’t intended to go by Cain’s tonight. He’d been angry enough after leaving Miss DiGratia to kick his horse and spit. He’d done neither, but now he was almost as angry at himself. Eight hundred dollars for a worthless hole, and he’d sworn he’d never mine, never succumb to the lure of the ore.
He ducked inside his tent and stood a long moment staring at the canvas floor. It wasn’t the lure of ore that made him do it. It was pity … and friendship. He dropped to his knees, his arms stiff and reluctant as he tugged the canvas free and felt the board beneath.
He wasn’t reluctant lifting the board to drop his savings in, but it felt like lead to reach in and take some out. He could go back and tell them no deal. Cain would understand. Cain knew how he felt about mining. His own face had shown it. D.C. had blurted it.
He touched the pouches of gold dust stacked to one side, the bills on the other. His bank. His future. His worth. His fingers closed around two pouches, and he balanced their weight in his palm. About right. Maybe some from a third.
His hand rebelled, but he made it reach in for one more. Some of that one would go back. They’d weigh it, make the deal, and he’d return the rest to the hole. He again heard Cain’s wheezing voice. “And go where?”
Quillan knew well enough what it was to be uprooted, to leave what you know for what you neit
her knew nor wanted. Hadn’t he been dragged from place to place on the excuse of saving souls when all he wanted was a home and folks to love him? Eight hundred dollars was nothing to what some holes were going for. But then, this one was worthless.
He’d have to make them believe he doubted that, keep D.C. digging, maybe take on a man or two to help. Otherwise Cain would know he’d done it out of pity, and that would shame the old man. He’d cut out his own tongue before he shamed Cain.
It would cost plenty to keep the mine working, and D.C. couldn’t do it alone. Cain could hardly wield a pick with half his leg gone, blown off by a charge with a defective fuse. Quillan refused to consider the job himself. He would not under any circumstances scratch the ground for a living, nor willingly work a mine tunnel, especially one likely played out. The thought alone left a bad taste in his mouth. Well, he’d better get back and make the deal before either he or they changed their minds.
D.C. looked like he’d swallowed feathers, so badly did he want to question Quillan’s decision. Quillan gave him no opening until the deal was concluded and the money exchanged.
Slow Jim and Morty took their leave, and Quillan stood with a forced grin and held out his hand to Cain. “Well, partner?”
Cain gripped it weakly. “You ain’t got time for a dawg, but you got time for a mine?”
“I can’t work it, Cain. You’ll have to hire on someone to help D.C. My share’s an investment.”
“What if there’s no ore like they said?”
“There is no ore.” D.C. wiped his face and threw down the towel. “I tried to tell you, Daddy.”
“But there might be. Deeper in.”
D.C. shook his head. “That’s what they all say. All the fools who don’t know when to stop.”
“And plenty of fools stopped too soon when the real pay dirt was only a few feet away.” A vein stood out in Cain’s temple.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to tunnel it all day in the dark with nothing but a candle on your hat and another on the wall, and dank air in your lungs, your hands worked to the bone.”
Cain scowled. “What would you rather do?”
“Anything!” D.C. threw up his hands. “I’d rather drag a plow behind a mule than dig in a hole like a varmint. I want out, too, Daddy. I want out so bad I could spit.”
Quillan laid a hand to his shoulder, gripping perhaps harder than he needed to. “Consider carefully what you’re saying, Daniel Cain. You’re turning your back on something your father’s put a lot of his life into.”
“Then let him dig the hole! Let him blow his other leg off looking for ore that ain’t there!”
Quillan’s fingers dug harder. D.C. didn’t know how good he had it with a father like Cain who cared for him. He saw the tightening of Cain’s lips, the grim look of the eyes, almost opaque, a mask to cover the pain.
“You want to walk away, boy? Go ahead.” Cain’s voice was stronger than Quillan expected. “Go ahead and push a plow, or get drunk and gamble your life away.”
“Need money for that.” D.C.’s chin was dropped so low to his chest he growled it.
“In the box. You can take all I got. I only wanted it for you anyhow.”
Quillan stiffened as D.C. pulled away and grabbed the money box from the crate. He took out a thin stack of bills and ruffled them. With a frown, he put several back inside but kept the majority. Then he looked up at his father. “I just can’t do it anymore.”
Cain nodded. “Then don’t.”
As D.C. pushed past him and left the tent, Quillan felt defeated. Why had he spoken up? Cain would have been better off with new partners or leaving town with D.C. Why had he jumped in and given D.C. an excuse? Now what? They would have to hire men to work the mine, and Cain would need to oversee it himself.
“Are you up to this, Cain?”
Cain shrugged, letting himself down on the cot. “I’m gettin’ too old to wonder what I’m up to, don’t ya know.”
Quillan sat down on an upturned crate, elbows to knees. “Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”
Cain shook his head. “Not sure he has any to come to.”
Carina shrank back from the window, sickened by the violence she’d just witnessed. The brutality. And just under her window, so she could hear the thudding fists against the young man’s flesh, the grunt of his breath, and his cries. Snatching her shawl, she ran down the stairs.
“Hey there! Where are you going?” Mae blocked her path.
“A man’s been hurt.”
“It’s not your affair.”
Carina tied the shawl on her shoulders. “He’s just outside. You must have heard it, too.”
“Doesn’t matter what I hear or don’t hear. I mind my own business.”
Carina stared. Mind her business? She could ignore such a thing? “He’s hurt. Badly.”
“What’s that to you?”
Carina drew herself up. “My papa is a physician. I know a little medicine. I cannot leave him there bleeding in the street.” “Well, you’d better leave him.”
“As you left me when I fell senseless on your porch?”
Mae pressed her hands to her hips. “That was different.”
“How different? He’s been beaten and robbed.”
“That’s right. It’s the roughs. And if you run out there, you’ll be next.”
Carina stared at the back door. Just beyond it a man lay, gagging on his own blood. She hardened her jaw. She would not leave him lying there. She had seen the men run off—brutes, big and ungainly. Carruthers? The thought jellied her spine. But she walked to the door, turned the knob, and pulled it open.
In the darkness she could hear him crying. Her heart twisted. Did a man cry? Even a boy so grown as he? She almost turned back inside, then remembered her bold words to Mae. She had to see it through now. She had no choice.
“Here. Don’t cry.” She hurried to his side. “Are you maimed? Is something broken?”
He groaned. “Leave me alone.” He spoke through a thick and fouled nose. Broken surely. “I wish they’d finished it.”
“Well, they didn’t. But they might if you stay here crying.”
He yanked his arm away. “Leave me alone.” Then his eyes found her in the dark, and he wretched. “It was my daddy’s money. Almost everything he had, and him all crippled up on one leg.”
Carina felt her jaw drop. The same boy. The same one she’d seen only days ago with the old man on the crutch. The pair who had left her feeling so alone. She grabbed him by the shoulder. “Get up now. You need tending.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Maybe not. But you need it.” She tugged ruthlessly, and he struggled to his feet, wincing. She half dragged him inside, then kicked the door shut behind her.
Mae had a sheet spread on one of the long tables. “Set him there. How bad is he?”
“I won’t know until we clean the blood off. I think his nose is broken.”
Mae snorted. “So is most of the camp’s.” She strode away and returned a minute later with a basin of warm water and a towel.
Carina washed his face, wincing when fresh blood flowed from the nose unchecked. Though he screamed, she reformed the nose between her hands. She tore two small pieces of muslin from a roll Mae held, rolled them tight like cigarettes, and pushed them into the nostrils in spite of his hollering. They would hold the cartilage in place and keep the passages open while stanching the blood. He would have to breathe through his mouth.
She mopped the remainder of his facial cuts clean. None were severe enough to need sewing. “Help me with his shirt.” Her fingers worked the buttons loose.
Mae frowned, but the man sat still and stopped complaining, likely dazed.
“I must see if there is bleeding inside.” Carina pulled open the shirt. “Bring the lamp closer.” She pressed his stomach with her palm and examined the ribs, then walked around to his back, again pressing with her palm and watching the flesh. “I don’t think your organs are damaged
.”
“How would you know? Are you a doctor?” He spoke thickly through his blocked nose.
“Are you in need of one? Or simply of someone with better sense?”
He scowled. “I don’t have to take this.”
“Didn’t you learn the last time not to walk alone at night?”
His head came up abruptly. “The last time?”
“The last time you lay in the street and your papa came for you.”
He jerked around to face her. “What are you, a spy?”
“Not a doctor, nor a spy. It takes neither to recognize a fool.”
He pushed her away and stood, his legs shaky, but his expression firm in spite of the cloth protruding from his nose. “I told you to leave me alone.”
“You would prefer to lie down again in the street?”
“By Jove, I would!”
“Then by all means …” She waved her arm. “Your bed is made. Go sleep in it.”
He staggered toward the front door, gripped the knob, and nearly fell out when it opened. Without a backward look, he went out and slammed the door.
Carina raised her chin. “Buona notte.”
Mae’s laugh was so deep and full it choked her. “Land sakes, Carina. He’d rather face the roughs than your tending.”
“So let him.” She looked down at her blood-soaked blouse, all the thanks she’d get for her trouble.
“Is your father really a doc?”
“Yes.”
“Not a poor man’s doctor, I’d wager.”
Carina raised her chin, reminded of Quillan’s remarks. “He has served a king.”
Mae let out a low whistle. “Well, well.”
Carina softened. “He has also tended any who came to his door and many who couldn’t come. And sat by the deathbeds of some too desperate to own a decent bed to die in.” She met Mae’s violet eyes, daring her to scoff, to ridicule her pride in her papa, her heritage.
Mae smiled. “Let’s have a cup of tea. A toast to your victim.”
“I did not break his nose.”
“No, but you certainly put it out of joint.” Mae caught Carina’s arm through hers and laughed.
“It was his own stubbornness.”
The Rose Legacy Page 14