Resilient Love: Banished Saga, Book 7

by Ramona Flightner

  Rather than using the benches for men to sit on and change, rows of deceased miners were laid out here, awaiting identification from family members before transporting to various funeral parlors. Lucas pulled out a handkerchief to cover his nose as the smell of burnt and rotting flesh permeated the air. Many of the corpses were disfigured beyond recognition, whereas others had men and women sobbing over them.

  When Lucas reached the opposite side of the long room, he heaved a sigh of relief at not recognizing Patrick among the dead.

  Gulping in fresh air as he emerged from the dry, he glanced around for Fiona. She was not at the fluttering sheets attached to a bulletin board outside the shed nor was she among the small groups commiserating and praying. He frowned as he wandered the cramped area open to the public, unable to locate his cousin-in-law.

  He heard a bell ring and saw cables moving, realizing men were being brought up from belowground in an area cordoned off from the general public. Near the cage entrance, Fiona stood with her hands at her chest as her lips moved in silent prayer. “Fee,” he gasped as he rushed to her side after slipping past the guard. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t see the men who are brought up.”

  “They said Patrick’s down below. That he’s nearly an hour overdue coming up. The foreman recognized me and allowed me in.” Her terrified gaze met his. “He might be with this group.”

  Lucas slung an arm over her shoulders and eased her backward to allow doctors and emergency personnel to have better access. When he realized she would not leave the area, he sighed and hummed a soft song for her.

  “Music won’t make this better.”

  “I know, but it soothes me and hopefully helps you a little,” he whispered. Unable to prevent Fiona from stiffening in instinctive fear at seeing more dead miners with his cousin among them, he stood on his tiptoes as the cage rattled up. He shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know what I’m seeing. These men are in some kind of breathing contraption while others are foisted to the ground.”

  “This man needs the pulmotor!” the doctor yelled as he ripped a helmet off someone. A ventilatorlike machine was attached to him, providing oxygen as he lay prostrate on the ground.

  “Mac!”

  Fiona stiffened at Patrick’s anguished yell. She squirmed against Lucas’s firm hold on her until she could peer around those in front of her. “Oh, no,” she whispered as her husband knelt next to an immobile man, tears and sweat pouring down his grime-covered face. He allowed himself to be dragged away as another doctor approached and quickly examined the prostrate man, before Patrick rose to follow the gurney as they rushed the man called Mac to a waiting ambulance.

  “Patrick!” Fiona called, her voice cracking and barely audible.

  He froze and turned at her faint yell. “Fee?” He grunted as she threw herself in his arms, holding him tight for a minute before she backed away. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted area.”

  “I’ve had no word. No news of you for days. What was I to think?” She swiped at her cheek and stepped back as he raised a grubby hand to her face. He dropped it at her instinctive motion away from him and wiped his forehead instead.

  “That I’ve been busy trying to save those I could.” His raspy voice faded away as he coughed. He bent at his waist, coughing deeply and spitting a few times on the ground. When he rose, he brushed away a tear from his coughing jag. “I must go to the hospital and see how my partner is. Mac.”

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “He tried to carry a man out. Like we’ve done before. But the man hit Mac’s air tube and …” Patrick’s eyes became bleak. “We were a long way from the cage.”

  “Don’t go back down, Patrick.” Her voice wavered as she fought tears. “Please. Don’t make me or Lucas go through the dry. Not again.”

  His already somber eyes sobered further. “I promise to do all in my power to return to you and Rose. But don’t ask me not to aid those who could be saved, Fee. There might still be men alive down there. We found a group just now hidden behind a makeshift barricade. There might be more in the same situation.”

  “But you don’t have to find them,” she whispered, grabbing his forearm.

  He gripped her hand a moment before freeing himself from her clasp. “Think of their families, Fee. Their wives. Their children. Their mothers.” He met her anguished gaze. “I will do what I must.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Take care of Rose for me.” He glanced back at Lucas. “Thank you.”

  Lucas nodded. “We don’t need a martyred hero in the family, Pat. Remember that.” He moved forward to stand by Fiona as Patrick rushed away to follow his partner to the hospital.

  “He’ll go back down again,” she whispered. “Even though I asked him not to.”

  “He will. Not because he wants to go against your wishes. But because he must live with himself too. If he stopped now, he’d have a hard time holding up his head. You must know a man needs his pride.”

  Fiona clamped her jaw. “Pride be damned if it takes him from me.”

  After another moment of watching the chaos around them, Lucas tugged on her arm and turned her away from the mine. “Come. Let’s return to my house. I imagine Rose is looking forward to telling you about her adventures with Aunt Vivie today.” He coaxed and teased Fee as they made their slow way from the mine yard, Fiona casting glances over her shoulder for another glimpse of Patrick.

  Two days later, Patrick pushed open the door to his house. He glanced around, frowning at the silence that welcomed him. He wandered through the rooms to find them all empty. “They must be at Lucas’s,” he muttered to himself. He entered his bedroom and pulled out a set of fresh clothes before heading to the bathroom. After he had showered and washed away five days’ worth of grime, he emerged, intent on seeing his wife and daughter.

  He paused a moment on his front porch, a soft smile spreading as Fiona and Rose walked toward him. Rose took four steps to every one of Fiona’s but seemed inordinately delighted at her ability to walk beside her mother. She giggled at something Fiona said and clapped her hands together. He sighed with contentment.

  Fiona stiffened at the darkened shadow on her porch. “Patrick!” she gasped upon recognizing him, at first moving toward him before freezing. “You’re home. Is the work done then?”

  His delighted smile dimmed at her recalcitrance before he picked up Rose and spun her around. He settled her on his hip and breathed in her smell. “Hello, my little angel.”

  “Papa. I miss you!” She hugged him and kissed his cheek before squirming to be let down. He kissed her head and let her go, following Fiona and Rose into the house.

  “I just got back. I showered and was going to look for you at Lucas’s but then saw you walking home.” He paused in the doorway of the living room as he watched Fiona set up Rose to play alone. “I helped with the recovery of those who died for as long as possible. I received word today that I’m needed at work tomorrow full time, so I had to leave the rest of the recovery efforts with my colleagues.”

  Fiona nodded, looking away from him as she fiddled with one of Rose’s toys. “How many more days? Until they … find all the men?”

  “They hope only one or two,” Patrick murmured. He frowned as Fiona nodded but said nothing. “It’s good to be home.”

  Rose settled into the living room to play with her dolls and a set of wooden trains her uncles in Missoula had built for her. Patrick ensured she was fine before following Fiona into the kitchen. “Fee? What’s the matter? I came home.” He grunted as she spun around and swatted him on his chest.

  “You came home? That’s your response?” She glared at him through tear-soaked eyes. “I asked you not to go down again. I asked you.” She bit back her words and swallowed her anger.

  He grabbed her shoulders, ignoring her stiffening. “I know you did. And it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, denying you that request. Can you understand why I had to continue?”

  “You c
ould have died!” she snapped. “And then where would Rose and I have been?”

  “My family would always take care of you.” His mournful gaze roved over her.

  “What good would their money do if you were gone? You, Patrick?” She gasped as she lost her battle with her tears and sobbed. He tugged her close and held her against his chest as she cried.

  “Oh, Fee. I never meant to cause you this anguish. I never thought …” He sighed, kissing her head and relishing the feel of her in his arms.

  After many minutes, she whispered, “And that’s my fault too. For too long, you’ve thought I only cared because you were a good provider.”

  “What are you saying, Fee?” He swiped hands over her face, frowning in frustration as she flinched at his touch. He dropped his hands and stepped away from her.

  She looked away from him a moment before raising her eyes to meet his. “That I value you as more than a provider.”

  He watched her intently a moment and then nodded. “I’ll take that for now.” He smiled. “After all the time at the mine, I’m looking forward to a few days of quiet at work and at home. Do you think we could have that?”

  She smiled. “I know Rose has missed you as much as I have.”

  “Thank you, Fee. For caring enough to come to the mine. For taking care of Rose when I was away. For being here.” He traced a pattern on his thigh rather than on her arm and then eased from the kitchen to join his daughter in the living room. He sighed with contentment and battled guilt that he was home with his family when so many had been denied such a gift.

  Chapter 5

  Missoula, Montana, June 1917

  Summerlike weather had finally arrived in Missoula with longer, sunnier days. Although it fluctuated from comfortably warm in the day to near freezing at night, the flowers and trees were in bloom, and the birds had returned, trilling their joy. Snow remained on the distant mountain peaks, but the lower hills were changing from a lush green provided by the spring rains to their customary golden hue.

  Araminta, a woman who had moved west with Savannah McLeod in 1903 after having lived in Delia McLeod’s orphanage for most of her life, relished the sun on her cheeks. She paused in her round of cleaning and chores in Savannah’s house to stand in the living room awash in sunlight and to bask in the warmth finally returning to Montana after a harsh winter. She sighed when a knock at the front door interrupted her quiet interlude. Her gently loping gait was a testament to a poorly healed leg injury from her childhood, although it rarely impeded her work or slowed her down.

  As she opened the door a fraction, she smiled with impersonal politeness at the woman standing with a bag at her feet. “May I help you?”

  “Does Savannah McLeod live here?”

  “May I ask who is calling?” Araminta inquired as she faltered back a step when the woman pushed her way inside. Araminta caught her balance, flushing in agitation at the woman’s rudeness.

  “Oh, I’m an old friend from Boston. I know she will be delighted to see me,” the woman said as she peered around doorways leading off the front hall.

  “Even so, we all have names,” Araminta snapped. She rubbed her hands on her starched white apron and brushed back a strand of sable hair that had come free from her bun.

  The woman raised an eyebrow and looked Araminta over with an assessing glance from head to toe. “If you were my maid, such impertinence would have you cast out without a reference.”

  “I am not a maid, and you continue to refuse to give your name. I find that reason enough to ask you to leave,” Araminta said, pushing the woman toward the door.

  At that moment, Savannah McLeod walked down the hallway from the kitchen area, her brow creased with a frown. “Araminta, is there a problem?” She smoothed a hand over her sky-blue day dress with her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck.

  “Yes, this woman is insistent upon speaking with you but refuses to give me her name.” Araminta pointed at the woman who stood as tall as her five-foot-four frame allowed. The light entering the front door’s glass panel highlighted the gray mixed into her blond hair.

  “She declined to share that information because she knew she would never be welcomed in my house,” Savannah murmured, an icy undertone to her voice. “I’m surprised you’d have the nerve to come here.”

  “Why shouldn’t I visit my only daughter?” The woman raised her chin with bravado.

  “She hasn’t been your daughter for years, Mrs. Smythe,” Savannah said, using her guest’s first married name, rather than the name granted to her when she’d married Savannah’s uncle, Sean Sullivan.

  Araminta gasped as she gaped at the older woman she had heard about but had never met. Mrs. Smythe stood with a regal posture, as though her presence in the room was a benediction to the household. Her gray-blond hair was held back in a chignon with a pearl clip although her clothes were years out-of-date and faded. Alert brown eyes challenged Savannah as they continued their silent stalemate.

  “Mama, can you help me in the kitchen?” Melinda called out as she walked down the hallway, holding a cookbook.

  Savannah’s panicked gaze darted to her daughter. Although sixteen, Melinda would be unprepared for the sudden arrival of her birth mother. Frozen in place, Savannah failed to impede her daughter’s entrance into the hallway and prevent Mrs. Smythe from seeing her.

  Melinda looked up with a curious frown and smiled impersonally at the stranger in front of her. She shrieked as the stranger touched her, causing the cookbook to clatter to the floor. Wriggling in the woman’s arms to free herself, she pushed away until she stood behind Savannah, the woman she considered her mother.

  “Oh, my precious girl! You’ll never know how I’ve longed for this moment!” Mrs. Smythe exclaimed, swiping at the tears forced from her eyes. She reached again for Melinda, but Savannah intervened, blocking her grasp while keeping Melinda behind her.

  “You have no right to be here. You forfeited any parental concern when you …” Savannah snapped her jaw shut.

  “I did what I had to do. As any mother would,” Mrs. Smythe said in her candy-cane voice.

  “You’re the vile woman who sent me to the orphanage,” Melly breathed with fascination. She peered around Savannah, noting the similar coloring and height she shared with the stranger.

  “How can you say such a thing? I’m your mother,” Mrs. Smythe sputtered. She patted at her hair, now more gray than blonde. “I remember those beautiful blond ringlets. So like my own when I was a child.”

  “You were awful to my siblings,” Melly said. “Why should I like you?”

  “Melly, go fetch your father,” Savannah ordered before Mrs. Smythe could wander any further down memory lane. “You.” Savannah’s voice broke with fury as she faced Mrs. Smythe. “You will sit in the parlor with me as we await my husband.” She followed Mrs. Smythe into the living room to the side of the front door. As she was about to sit, Savannah looked to Araminta and motioned for her to leave.

  Araminta walked down the hallway, through the kitchen and out the back door. She shut the door soundlessly and paused. After a moment, she departed, walking at a near trot toward Clarissa McLeod’s house to inform her of her stepmother’s untimely return.

  “Father!” Melly gasped as she barreled into the workshop. She slammed into a customer, bouncing off him and landing on the floor with a grunt of discomfort. She glanced around, noting that the usual noises of sanding, sawing and hammering had silenced at her precipitous arrival. A squeaking wheel approached Melinda as did boot heels on the wood floor. The customer departed, and the door creaked shut, giving them privacy.

  Ronan O’Bara offered her a hand, and she smiled as he helped her to her feet. She brushed at her backside, wood dust fluttering in the air. She yowled as a splinter worked its way into her palm, and she sucked at it a second before focusing on her father. He sat on a bench in front of her, next to his brother Gabriel, with Ronan on his other side.

  “Tell u
s what has caused you to run in here like the little hellion we know you are but hope to hide from the town,” Jeremy said as he fought a smile. His tender gaze roved lovingly over his daughter.

  “She’s back. That woman is back,” Melinda gasped. At her father’s and uncle’s confused frowns, she took a deep breath. “My …” She paused and bit her lip. “My real mother.”

  Jeremy stiffened, and Gabriel’s concerned frown turned into a glower. “She can’t be. She has no reason to be,” Jeremy said.

  “Sophie did write last year that she suspected Mrs. Smythe would arrive, bringing mischief with her,” Gabriel said to his brother. “The delay in her arrival has only led us to become complacent in our belief that Sophie was wrong.”

  “That woman is never wrong.” Jeremy rose and kicked a stool, missing Melinda’s flinch at his actions. Ronan held her hand, offering her comfort.

  “Jer,” Ronan said, his quiet voice commanding notice as Jeremy appeared on the verge of loosening his rage.

  Jeremy spun and focused on Melinda. He marched to her and clasped her face in his hands, frowning as she battled tears. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’d never hurt you.” He pulled her to his chest, holding her close.

  “I know.” She wrapped her arms around him as she rested her cheek against his chest. “Does this mean I have to go with her?” Melinda’s voice broke on the word “go,” and Jeremy felt her shudder as she fought tears.

  “Hell no,” Gabriel growled. He patted Melinda on the back as he watched his brother hold the daughter of his heart. “There’s no way we will allow that woman to separate you from those who love you as their daughter. As you deserve to be loved.”

  Melinda pushed away from her father, brushing at her cheeks. “Mother needs you at home. She’s stuck with her and wants you there.”