by Lisa Bingham
“Then what do you think is going on?”
“They’re either spooked by Jenny’s murder...”
“Or?”
“Or they’re planning a revolt.”
Charles rolled his eyes—a reaction that seemed to upset Gideon even more.
He tossed the wood aside and grabbed another log, then shook his finger at Charles. “You mark my words. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“And what are they going to revolt against? They’ve got the Dovecote to live in, access to the cook shack. They have their own doctor, their own medical facilities...what more could they want?”
Gideon shook his finger again, opened his mouth, shut it, then confessed, “I don’t know. But if something happens, no doubt Lydia Tomlinson will be at the heart of it.”
Charles couldn’t help grinning. “Do you really think she’d be so...devious?”
“Yes.”
“To what end?”
“I don’t know!”
Gideon set another log on the stump.
He seemed to chew on his thoughts for a few minutes, all the while adding to the pile of firewood. At this rate, Charles wouldn’t have to split logs for a week.
“I tell you, Charles, you’ve got to get back onto that pulpit.”
Charles wasn’t sure how the conversation had circled back to his former role as lay preacher.
“Why?”
“Because they can’t seem to find anyone who will stick. Fredrickson was the first man they appointed. The poor fellow was so terrified, I thought he’d shake right out of his boots. Didn’t come back again. Then it was Lester Dobbs. That man could talk the hind leg off a mule, but he spent the whole time reading so softly from the Bible that no one could hear him. I hear tell that Bottoms relieved him of his duties...” Gideon affected a quavering voice that sounded remarkably similar to Phineas Bottoms.
“Next, they asked Theo Caruso.”
Charles straightened, recognizing one of the names left on the chart listing Willow and his suspects.
“Caruso? How’d that go?”
Gideon tipped his head back, resting the ax on the stump, his expression becoming pained.
“Honest to Pete, Charles. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. That man rails on and on about the wages of sin and where we’ll all end up if we didn’t repent. If I’d had to listen to him much longer, I wouldn’t have had the will to live.”
Charles couldn’t help laughing. “What do you know about the man himself?”
“He’s new. He hasn’t been here for more than...six months? He works with the mules, bringing the ore out of the tunnels, so you probably wouldn’t have had much contact with him.”
Gideon shot a meaningful look at Charles.
“I’m beginning to believe the man has a guilty conscience,” Gault continued. “Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to get off the subject of death and sin and the punishments reserved for the wicked.”
Charles wanted to pepper Gideon with questions. But he’d learned long ago that the man clammed up if he felt he was being interrogated—which was probably why he and Lydia didn’t get along too well. She tended to needle the Pinkerton with questions.
Why do we have to go to the Dovecote now?
Why do we need so many guards?
Why? Why? Why?
Again, Gideon shot Charles a look. Then he said, “Jonah and I caught him with a bottle of whiskey about a month back.”
Charles straightened. Here in Bachelor Bottoms, that was a serious offense. Even the most minor infraction could be grounds for dismissal. Bringing a bottle of alcohol into the valley would be enough for a man to be sacked.
“Do the owners know?”
“Bottoms knows. Jonah and I went to him first. You can bet that if Batchwell had found out, he would have been hollering so loud the mountains would come down. If the pass hadn’t already been closed from the avalanche, Caruso would have been out on his ear. But Bottoms hauled the man into his office and tore a strip out of his hide, I’d wager. Found out later that Theo’s on probation. I was ordered to search his rooms and check on the man every now and again, make sure he was on the straight and narrow. If he can keep his nose clean until spring, he’ll still have his job.”
“So, that’s the end of it then?”
Gideon paused again. He’d worked up a sweat and he ran the back of his arm over his forehead. “I don’t know. I still feel like there’s something...off about the man.”
“In what way?”
He squinted against the weak sunshine trying to break through the trees. “I can’t put my finger on it. He’s a hard worker and clearly loves the Scriptures, but...”
“But what?”
“I don’t know. He seems...troubled. No, he seems tormented. Especially the past few weeks. Even Sumner commented on it after one of his sermons.”
Charles filed that information away. Maybe Willow could talk to Sumner and see if the good doctor had anything more to offer.
“Please, Charles,” Gideon said, resting the ax on his shoulder. “I would take it as a personal kindness if you would get back to your preaching.”
“Who’s doing it now?”
Gideon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if gathering his strength. “Klute Ingraham.”
At that, Charles laughed. Klute Ingraham was a portly miner with a shining bald pate, a rotund belly and a fondness for taxidermy. His donation to the creature comforts of the women in the Dovecote had been a trio of ferrets dressed like clowns.
“It’s not funny,” Gideon said, sounding like a disgruntled little boy. “You know how the man talks. He starts out reminiscing about the Garden of Eden, which reminds him of his grandmother who made wonderful bread, which he’s never had as good as a day at the seashore in Maine, where they have marvelous clams that can bite you as easily as a fox, which, by the way, is the subject of his latest taxidermy opus.”
“Opus?”
Gideon laid his hand on his chest as if taking a vow. “I am telling you the honest truth. That was the subject of yesterday’s Devotional. He spent a solid hour detailing the methods employed to divest the poor little critter of its fur. I thought the women were going to be sick—and Miss Tomlinson turned around to glare at me! As if it were my fault the man was off his rocker.”
“Did he ever get the sermon back on track?”
“Only after a great deal of noisy throat clearing by Batchwell. About the last five minutes, he finally managed to tie in a spiritual element by announcing that the unfortunate creature was destined to be part of a still life entitled Wasatch Winter Wonderland, in which Klute intends to pay homage to God’s glorious creation of the Uinta Mountains.”
“But the Wasatch Mountains are an entirely different range than the Uintas.”
“You know that, and I know that. But Klute seems to think that a diorama involving a fox, a beaver and a duck are the perfect means to portray God’s creative powers here in the Territories.”
Charles chortled even harder at that.
Gideon pointed an accusing finger. “You’re laughing now, but wait until he comes to visit. He told me in passing that he was running out of ideas for subject matter.” Gideon’s expression became positively beseeching. “Please, for the sake of the community’s spiritual welfare. Come back.”
Charles opened his mouth to refuse. But then he said, “We’ll see.”
Bending, he scooped up an armful of wood. But he’d taken only a few steps toward the door when Gideon called after him, “I’m going to take that as an agreement!”
* * *
Willow was not a complete stranger to the mines. Her own father had briefly worked in a tin mine when she was small, before he’d taken a job at the woolen mills in Lancaster. But she’d never been inside one.
As she and Charles approached
the yawning opening, her steps faltered. Charles had explained that, because of the weather and the deep layers of snow, it would be impossible to bury Jenny in the cemetery on the hill outside town. Short of dynamite, nothing would penetrate the frozen ground. Because of this, the miners had long ago dug a special tunnel that they used for interring their dead. A space would be excavated into the wall to hold the remains. Then the casket would be covered with earth, rocks and timbers, and the place would be marked with a plaque.
Charles bent to murmur, “Some people have an aversion to dark, close places. You don’t have to go in if you don’t want.”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll go.”
He reached to lace their fingers together. “Hold on to me. If you find that you can’t tolerate it anymore, you don’t have to say anything. Tightly squeeze my hand and I’ll take you back outside.”
Willow nodded, even though she knew she wouldn’t accept the offer. She had to see this through to the end. She owed it to her friend.
They stepped inside, following the narrow rail lines that stretched into the distance. A few hundred feet into the tunnel, just as the shadows had begun to close around them, lanterns had been placed at intervals to drive away the darkness.
“These lanterns are made so they can’t start a spark, and the rail lines are for the ore cars. See how they branch off from one another in the distance?”
She nodded, knowing that Charles was attempting to draw her mind away from the thought of stepping deep underneath the mountain.
“One of them heads north, the other south. Right now, we have mules who do most of the work of pulling the cars to the surface, but in time, we’ll be converting to a steam locomotive system.”
As they followed the tracks deeper into the mine, Willow was surprised to find that the tunnel wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She’d heard her father complain about the damp, close confines of the tin mines, but here, the air was cool—not cold—and dry.
They approached the spot where the ore lines branched into opposite tunnels. Between them was a roughly constructed building with windows that looked out into the mine.
“This is where I spend part of my day when I’m working,” Charles said, pointing to the door where someone had painted Office on a splintered board. “I meet here with Jonah and my crew before we head underground.”
The darkness increased as they moved farther from the main entrance. Here, the miners had braced the walls and ceilings with timbers, and the openings gradually became narrower. The air grew heavy with the scent of earth and something that smelled like gunpowder. Occasionally, the rail lines would split into new tunnels that were identified with plaques painted with numbers.
“In this section, all the tunnels have been given odd numbers. The other side has all the evens. Can you feel the slight breeze?”
“Yes.”
“The tunnels have to be kept well-ventilated to prevent the buildup of dangerous gasses and to provide fresh air for the miners. Because of that, you’ll find offshoot shafts that lead up to the surface to help circulate the air.”
“I thought the mine would be...damp.”
Charles grimaced. “Some of the newer tunnels can be wet and muddy. Even the older ones get their share of water in the spring when the snow melts. But up here, we have drainage channels that help to keep the moisture at bay.”
They moved several hundred yards down the line. Soon, the lanterns were spaced farther apart, so they moved from one puddle of light to another, until Charles drew her to a halt in front of a narrow opening.
“Still okay?” he murmured.
“Yes.” The word was little more than a puff of sound.
“The walls will be closer here. But I’ll stay by your side.”
She nodded. Unlike the other openings they’d passed, this one hadn’t been numbered. There were no rail lines leading inside.
Charles led her forward, through a narrow passage. No lanterns had been hung here, but she could see a golden glow at the end.
Her fingers tightened around Charles’s and she tried not to think about the tons of mountain above her, kept at bay with little more than timbers. But soon, they stepped through a doorway and the space opened into a wide square chamber. In this spot, the walls had been lined floor to ceiling with rough-hewn timbers and she could see where brass plaques with names and dates identified the resting places of those who had been interred.
To her surprise, she found that she and Charles weren’t alone. Many of the mail-order brides were present, as well as the Hepplewhite and Wilmott families, and a few employees from the ill-fated train. Several of them held bunches of holly or pine boughs in lieu of flowers. Toward the back of the group, at least two dozen miners ringed the room. They had removed their helmets, but held them under their arms so that the attached safety lanterns could provide them all with light.
“There would have been more people in attendance if Jonah had allowed it. The miners drew straws to decide who would come to pay their respects. The brides decided among themselves.”
Willow’s gaze swept the room, her throat growing tight with emotion. Jenny had associated very little with the miners. Willow was touched that so many had wanted to come to the funeral.
The ranks parted, allowing Willow and Charles to move closer to the far wall. There, Jenny’s coffin rested on the ground. The planks had been removed from the wall, exposing a hole dug large enough to hold Jenny’s remains.
Willow blinked away the tears that threatened to fall.
“Thank you all for coming.” The murmured conversation ceased as Jonah Ramsey stepped in front of the coffin.
“It is a sad occasion any time this chamber is needed, and this event proves to be no exception. Indeed, this passing seems more tragic than most, since the life that was taken was that of a young mother and her unborn child.”
Emotions rose in Willow’s chest. She gripped Charles’s hand, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her to his strength and warmth.
“As you know, there were many more who would have been in attendance had the space allowed,” Jonah continued. “We are a small community here at the Batchwell Bottoms Mine. But we have been blessed these past few weeks by the presence of our unwitting guests. Jenny Reichmann was one of our stranded passengers. She was marooned here, against her will, through an act of nature. And because of that, she will never have the opportunity to reunite with the husband who, even now, waits for her arrival.”
A sob pushed from Willow’s throat as she remembered how Jenny had spoken of the man who’d stolen her heart. To hear her talk, her husband had been the stuff of dreams, a romantic hero who had swept Jenny off her feet and promised her the world.
“Any death diminishes us as a community. I know that the women of the Dovecote sorely miss their friend. The rest of us will mourn the fact that we never really had a chance to know her.”
Willow didn’t miss the fact that Jonah had been vague about the cause of Jenny’s death. There was no mention of the fact that her life had been stolen through a supreme act of selfishness.
Murder.
Was the culprit here? Standing among them?
Willow’s gaze slipped over the other women. Iona, who pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her sobs. Lydia, who allowed slow tears to fall unfettered. Sumner, who stood tall and stiff, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Then Willow’s eyes slid to the miners, who stood stoic and iron-jawed. And she wondered...
Could one of you be responsible?
She’d seen plays where the culprit of a dastardly deed returned to the scene of the crime—or attended the funeral of their victim. Would the murderer be so audacious? So...despicable?
She eyed each one of the miners in turn. For the most part, they stared solemnly at the ground, or stood steely-eyed, gazing at their superintendent. On
ly one of them locked gazes with her. A burly man with muttonchop whiskers and deep grooves around his mouth. He held her attention for several seconds, nodded ever so slightly, then looked away.
Willow studied the brides next, a part of her balking at the fact that she could even consider them to be suspects. But Marie and Millie, Emmarissa and Greta, Myra and Miriam all seemed genuinely devastated by the loss of their own.
Beyond them were the families, the Hepplewhites and the Wilmotts. Mr. Hepplewhite shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. He kept tugging on his tie. Mr. Wilmott, on the other hand, stared blankly into space as if he were deep in thought and picturing another time and place.
Against the far wall, the railroad employees stood slightly apart from the other mourners, she noted. They wore their uniforms and stood at attention as if they were soldiers on review. There was Mr. Beamon, the porter who had accompanied them all the way from Independence, and another man Willow vaguely remembered helping her with her trunk as she and Jenny had hurried to make their train in time. The final man, one who stood tall and grim in workman’s coveralls, must have been the engineer or a stoker for the doomed train.
Were any of them responsible?
If so, would they actually plot to end the lives of two newly born babes?
Her gaze became keener, slipping from face to face. She became almost frantic in her inspection, looking for the slightest sign of malice or guilt. As Jonah continued his eulogy, the words washed over her, becoming a distant hum as her panic rose.
She knew the twins were safe. Creakle and Mr. Smalls had been more than happy to watch over them so that Charles and Willow could attend the funeral. But even with the reassurance that her babies were being watched by two heavily armed men who doted on their every move...
Willow felt an overwhelming urge to return to her children.
Hers and Jenny’s and Charles’s.
“Charles, as our spiritual leader, I wondered if we could ask you to comfort us all with a word of Scripture, then a prayer to dedicate her grave.”
Beside her, Charles stiffened.
Willow knew he warred with his emotions. Since he’d resigned, he didn’t feel it was his place to offer any religious instruction, especially after he’d told so many untruths in his efforts to protect the twins.