by Jen Turano
He’d made a decision to swear off women forever after the disaster with Helena, and he was determined to remain true to that decision. There was absolutely no reason to think of Agatha as anything other than an old friend, even if her touch did—
“Tell me about your leg.”
Zayne pulled his hand back. “I told you, I don’t care to discuss it.”
“Why are you in Colorado?”
“I needed some time alone.”
“Because of your leg?”
He sighed. “You’re still very annoying.”
“Thank you.”
He blew out a breath. “Can we just leave it that I’m in Colorado because I really do need to be alone right now?”
“You once told me when we were having one of our philosophical talks—although I think this particular talk might have happened in jail—that a person is never truly alone.”
The pounding in his head immediately increased. “I remember that talk, Agatha, but I was wrong. God certainly wasn’t with me when I suffered the injury to my leg. That has caused me to decide that He’s not the caring God I once thought Him to be. He allowed me to become a cripple, and I must admit that I really have little faith in Him anymore.”
Agatha opened her mouth, but he shook his head, causing her to close it. He knew she longed to argue with him, especially since she was a lady who believed deeply in God and all that went with that, but he no longer shared her beliefs, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to argue anything at the moment.
Forcing a smile, he edged a few inches away from her. “Now then, while I’ve enjoyed catching up with you, as you mentioned before, it’s past noon, and I really must head off to work.”
“We haven’t caught up on anything yet.”
“Of course we have. Would you mind fetching my cane for me? It’s over there against the window.”
“I’m well aware of where your cane is, since I put it there last night, and . . .” She rose to her feet, but instead of going to fetch his cane, she moved to his bed, lifting the mattress up before she pulled out a ratty-old bag that resembled a stuffed sock. “Good thing I didn’t forget about this, or you would have been hard-pressed to find where I hid it.” She moved back to stand over him and handed him the sack. “There’s a bunch of gold nuggets in there, but I have yet to figure out what that sack was doing attached to your belt.”
“All the prospectors out here use these sacks to store some of their finds. It’s convenient.”
“Or idiotic,” Agatha countered. “Aren’t you worried about getting robbed?”
“Not really. Most people out here think I’m a little insane, so they keep their distance.”
“I saw three ladies with you last night, and none of them were keeping their distance, but . . . Wait a minute. Surely you’re not telling me you’re a gold prospector now, are you?”
“So what if I am?”
“I’d have to say you truly are insane then. It can’t be good for that injured leg of yours to be stuck in a stream all day while you pan for gold.”
“I don’t pan for gold in a stream, I have my own mine.”
“Why would you purchase a mine when your family owns a very lucrative railroad business?”
“I needed a change—and no, I don’t want to discuss all the reasons behind that because I need to get to work.”
Agatha nodded, just once. “Fine, I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t recall asking you to join me.”
“And I don’t recall you ever having such a surly attitude before. Why, your mother would be absolutely appalled if she heard you now. And . . . speaking of your mother, if you don’t let me come with you today, I’ll send her a telegram straight away, telling her of your situation.”
She began to inspect her nails. “I wouldn’t put it past Gloria to jump on the first available train and come out here to take you in hand.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She stopped inspecting her nails and quirked a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
Zayne’s shoulders sagged as he realized this was going to be one of those battles he wasn’t going to win. “Fine, you can come with me, but it’s filthy out at the mine and you’ll ruin that pretty dress you’re wearing.”
“I’ll change,” she said before she walked over to his cane and brought it back to him. “Would you like assistance getting to your feet?”
It would have been helpful to have a hand up, but the last vestiges of his pride roared to life, and he found himself shaking his head even as he disregarded the hand Agatha was holding out to him. He tightened his grip around the cane and struggled to his feet, refusing to groan when his leg protested the movement. He wobbled for a moment, and when he was finally certain he wasn’t going to plunge to the floor, he looked at Agatha, who was watching him closely. “The mornings are always the worst, because my leg stiffens up during the night.”
“And yet instead of pampering that leg, you take it off to a mine.”
“I’ve made some adjustments out there that make it easier for me to get around.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She snapped her fingers, and Matilda hurried to her side. “How long before we leave?”
“It won’t take me long to call for my wagon.”
“You’re not going to bathe?”
“We’re going to a mine, Agatha, not a tea party.” Zayne hobbled over to where his boots were lying on the floor. “And I’ll leave without you if you’re not outside when the wagon shows up.”
“Then I’ll just have Mr. Blackheart dig up directions to your mine and escort me there. In fact, maybe that’s what I should do anyway. He’s certain to be a more pleasant riding companion than you.”
Zayne paused mid-hobble. “Are you talking about Mr. Blackheart, as in Theodore Wilder’s right-hand man?”
“One and the same. He’s the one who carried you up here last night after it became clear you weren’t going to come to your senses and stagger to your room on your own.”
His stomach began to feel queasy. “I never knew you found Mr. Blackheart interesting.”
“What?”
“Granted, he’s a somewhat handsome gentleman—if a lady goes for that strong, brooding, silent type—but I would have never thought the two of you would form an alliance.”
“I have no idea what you’re suggesting.”
“I suppose I’ll have to get used to calling you Mrs. Blackheart instead of Agatha. Gentlemen don’t take kindly to other gentlemen calling their wives by their given names.”
Agatha scrunched up her nose. “You should’ve told me you suffered an injury to your head as well as to your leg.”
“You’re not married to Mr. Blackheart?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Blackheart is the last gentleman I’d marry—well, except for you, of course. He’s been hired to guard me as I collect information for articles for the New-York Tribune.”
For some reason, a slice of what felt like relief stole over him, but he shoved that relief aside as something concerning struck him. “Don’t you think it’s slightly improper to be traveling around the country with a gentleman you’re not married to?”
“It’s 1883, Zayne, not the Dark Ages, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’m also traveling with a paid companion, Mrs. Drusilla Swanson.” She headed for the door. “Now then, since you seem eager to get out to your mine, I’m off to change. And know that I won’t be too long. I certainly don’t want to give you a reason to leave without me.” With that, she disappeared out of his room, her little pig prancing right behind her.
One hour later, Zayne sat on the seat of his wagon, not exactly certain why he hadn’t taken off for the mine yet, or why he’d changed his clothes and washed his face.
“What I’d like to know is what you were thinking, agreeing to allow Miss Watson to travel with you to some mine of questionable safety you’ve gotten yourself involved with.”
Blinking the sun out of his eyes, he turned and
found himself pinned under the rather daunting glare of Mr. Blackheart. It was immediately evident that during the two years since he’d last seen the man, Mr. Blackheart had not mellowed with age. “I didn’t agree to Agatha’s accompanying me. She just invited herself and refused to listen when I objected.”
“She told me you neglected to answer her questions, and surely you must remember that when Miss Watson has questions, nothing can stand in the way of her getting answers.” Mr. Blackheart stepped closer to the wagon, his gaze turning downright menacing. “I’m telling you now, Mr. Beckett, if anything of an unpleasant nature occurs while we’re visiting this mine, I’m holding you responsible.”
“It would be refreshing if I ever found you not intimidating people, Mr. Blackheart,” Agatha said, drawing Zayne’s attention as she approached them. “And, since you’re not coming with us today, if there is any ‘unpleasant’ business to be found, you won’t have to see it.” She stopped and took a moment to readjust the huge hat on her head, pulling down a layer of what appeared to be veiling over her face.
“You’d better hope we don’t encounter a stiff breeze,” Zayne said. “I’m fairly sure you’ll blow away, given the size of that hat.”
“Highly doubtful,” Agatha argued. “Besides, the sun is much too hot out here. I need to protect my skin.”
“Why the veil though?”
“I thought it lent a rather dramatic touch, and it’ll keep the bugs away.” She stepped closer. “So, shall we get on our way?”
Zayne ignored the question. “What are you wearing?”
“May I remind you that you’re concerned about the time, but if you really want to discuss fashion, fine.” She gestured to her clothing. “Today I’m wearing a practical pair of trousers paired with a lovely billowing shirt. To add an extra dash of flair, I’ve thrown chaps over my trousers and included a vest so that I’ll fit in with my western surroundings. And before you begin arguing with me, I’ve seen numerous women wearing trousers out here, so my attire is completely appropriate.”
Zayne swallowed the protest he’d been about to make, knowing Agatha spoke nothing less than the truth. While women were in short supply throughout the West, the few who roamed around did dress in trousers more often than not, especially those who worked beside their husbands panning for gold. And it wasn’t as if he’d never seen Agatha in trousers, but he’d forgotten how incredibly attractive she was, and chances were he’d get little work done today since she was certainly going to be a distraction.
Even though he’d sworn off women for good, he was still a man, after all, and men did tend to notice beautiful women. “It’ll be hot in the mine, so maybe you’d be more comfortable in a dress,” he settled on saying.
“And isn’t it just so unfortunate that I won’t have time to change since the day is quickly getting away from us?” Agatha hopped up on the seat next to him and glanced around. “Where’s Matilda? I thought she was right behind me.”
“Don’t think for a minute we’re going to take your pig.”
“She gets lonely when I’m not around,” Agatha replied before she smiled. “Ah, here she comes now.”
Zayne swiveled around and found a lady marching toward them, holding a picnic basket in one hand and a leash with Matilda attached to it in the other. Just like Agatha, she was dressed in trousers and a plain shirt, but her trousers appeared to be freshly ironed, whereas Agatha’s were a little wrinkled. The woman was wearing a small hat that afforded her a bit of shade, but her hat wasn’t outlandish in the least. A trace of amusement flowed over him when he noticed that every brown hair under that hat seemed to be perfectly in place, and she was holding herself as if she’d grown up with a book attached to her head.
“Mrs. Swanson,” Agatha exclaimed, “it’s wonderful to see you up and about and obviously feeling better, but there’s really no need for you to join me today.”
Mrs. Swanson deposited the basket in the back of the wagon, handed the leash to Mr. Blackheart, who looked taken aback, and then lifted her chin. “Of course I’m going to join you today, Miss Watson. That’s what we paid companions do, not rest in our rooms while our employers go off into the mountains unescorted.” She turned to Zayne. “If you don’t remember me, Mr. Beckett, I’m Mrs. Swanson, Drusilla Swanson, and I’m great friends with your sister, Arabella Wilder.”
Zayne peered at the lady, thought she looked somewhat familiar, but before he could even acknowledge her, Mr. Blackheart stepped forward.
“I was telling Mr. Beckett that I think taking Agatha with him to this mine is a bad idea.”
Mrs. Swanson pursed her lips. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr. Blackheart, but at least Miss Watson will have the two of us to watch out for her, and the poor dear has been fretting lately over a new story idea. Perhaps this will give her some inspiration.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mr. Blackheart mumbled before he turned his attention back to Zayne. “What were you planning on doing at this mine today?”
“I set some dynamite up yesterday, and I’m intending to blow out a new portion of a tunnel today.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Zayne knew he’d made a huge mistake. Agatha was suddenly bristling with excitement, while Mr. Blackheart and Mrs. Swanson had both turned a little pale.
“You need to get out of the wagon,” Mr. Blackheart demanded, shoving the leash back at Mrs. Swanson before he began moving in Agatha’s direction.
Agatha, being Agatha, shook her head and gripped the seat with both hands. “Not on your life, Mr. Blackheart. I’ve never been around dynamite before and I’ve always been curious as to how it would feel to blow something up.”
“Don’t make me cause a scene,” Mr. Blackheart growled, his lips barely moving.
Agatha’s eyes turned stormy. “I don’t appreciate the assumption that I’m going to blow myself up.”
“It’s not an assumption, Miss Watson—it’s what will most likely happen.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the snorts of Matilda as she rooted around in the dirt, until Agatha finally released a huff. “Fine, I promise I’ll try not to touch any dynamite.”
Mr. Blackheart quirked a brow. “Try?”
“It’s all I’m willing to offer.”
“You might as well give in gracefully,” Mrs. Swanson said as she handed the leash back to Mr. Blackheart. “You know she’ll just figure out a way to get out to the mine on her own if we stand in her way.”
“We could lock her in her room,” Mr. Blackheart suggested.
Mrs. Swanson’s lips pursed again. “I believe you tried that before, and with unfortunate results, so just be a dear and get Matilda into the wagon, won’t you?”
Mr. Blackheart sent Zayne another scowl, as if the situation were his fault, before he bent over, scooped Matilda up, plopped the pig in the back of the wagon, and began to walk toward another wagon parked a few feet away. “Just remember that I warned you about the danger of this,” he tossed over his shoulder as he waited for Mrs. Swanson to join him, helped her up on the wagon seat, and then climbed up beside her.
“He’s so dramatic,” Agatha exclaimed with a cheery wave to Mr. Blackheart before she turned her attention to Zayne. “So, tell me, exactly how does one get dynamite to explode?”
Deciding it would be in his best interest to ignore that ominous question, Zayne flicked the reins over the mules. The wagon lurched into motion, and as they picked up speed, he felt an unusual desire to say a prayer, one that would request assistance from God in helping him retain the use of his remaining good limbs. Remembering the troubling fact that he was at distinct odds with God at the moment, he pushed the desire aside and settled for keeping his attention fixed on the road. He could only hope Agatha would get the hint and realize he wasn’t in the mood for answering questions, especially those concerning dynamite.
3
Peering through the veil that distorted her view, Agatha considered Zayne as they plodded along, her conce
rn for his well-being growing the longer he remained unusually silent.
The Zayne of her past would have been trying his very best to distract her from the dynamite situation, not calmly driving along as if . . .
“You haven’t asked about Helena.”
Horror immediately replaced the concern.
How could she have been so remiss?
Helena was the answer to everything.
She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. “I never even considered Helena in all this, Zayne, but do know that you have my deepest sympathies.”
“Why do I need your sympathy?”
Agatha shoved the veil aside. “Because losing your true love had to have been remarkably difficult on you.”
“Helena was never my true love.”
“That’s hardly an appropriate way to speak of the deceased.”
Zayne pulled on the reins, bringing the mules to a stop before he turned in the seat. “What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Helena isn’t dead.”
“What do you mean, she isn’t dead?”
“I think that’s fairly self-explanatory. One is either dead or one is not, and believe me when I say Helena is not amongst the deceased.”
“She didn’t die in the accident that damaged your leg?”
Zayne’s jaw clenched. “My accident was caused when Helena insisted on taking her horse up a steep hill that was beyond her abilities. When I realized she was in danger, I tried to pull her off her struggling mount. Helena, for some unknown reason, balked at my assistance. She kicked out at me, missed, and kicked my horse. The horse took issue with that and reared. I was thrown to the ground, the horse fell on top of me, and my leg was crushed in the process.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
“Was I?” he countered. “My leg suffered an extensive break. Since Helena and I, along with her parents, were on holiday well away from progressive cities, I was left at the mercy of an incapable hack who managed to reset the bone, but not cleanly. Now I’m forced to hobble around on a leg that’s barely usable.”