Silver Heart (Historical Western Romance)

by Amelia Rose

  Chapter 4

  The kitchen was deep in shadows before either of us spoke again. We'd need to rise soon, light a candle or a lamp, although Mr. Longren doubtless knew his kitchen. I, however, had walked into walls and cabinets and the stove when it was full light. If he didn't rise and provide light, I'd be obliged to spend the night at the table.

  At last, when the light had failed sufficiently to obscure his face, Mr. Longren said, "Did your mother share much of my letters?"

  For some reason, that made my face heat again. There was no way he could have known the fairytales I created around a man I'd never met. That had been safe, innocent. Like having an imaginary friend or being borne off to marry a prince, and just about as likely.

  "She did. You were always close to my uncle, and to my mother, I suppose."

  He laughed. "She was like my mother, mine and Roy's, constantly calling us out for misdeeds, which only made us behave worse. We both had mothers. We didn't need Katherine."

  I missed her, and so I asked. "What was she like?"

  A moment of reflection, hidden by the shadows. "Like you, I think. She was strong and fast and funny, she didn't behave as—” He stopped abruptly, as if worried he was about to insult either my mother's memory or myself.

  "As she should?" I asked. "I have heard tales, Mr. Longren. And not just of her behavior."

  I couldn't see if he had the grace to blush. I continued, teasing. "Water snakes in her sewing kit; hay in her hair; nothing she ever reached for where she expected it and the Halloween pranks, alone… It's a wonder she loved you both so."

  He laughed, warm and comfortable, and said, "Now is when I should ask if you're willing to stay."

  "Now is when I should ask if you've overcome the need to tuck reptiles into the mending," I countered, and for that moment, we were at ease.

  When he spoke again, it was as he rose to fetch a match and light the lamps on the kitchen walls, making the rose-patterned wallpaper glow and bringing himself back to into reality. "This wasn't the way I had hoped to welcome you. Much of today must have been a mystery to you. What do you want to know?"

  My mind spun. I wanted to know how anyone could ever have the courage to step inside a mine and descend into the earth. I wanted to know if there were other midwives in Gold Hill or Virginia City or even as far away as Dayton or Reno, and what the townsfolk thought of them. I wanted to know…

  "Who is Jason Seth?" I asked.

  It took a few minutes for him to answer. The lamplight played over his face, highlighting the straight lines. He looked grave, but not angry.

  At last, he said, "I thought you might have overheard us."

  "In part."

  He grimaced. "Enough to build an unsavory portrait, perhaps?"

  I shook my head. "Enough only to build curiosity." That sounded frank, but I didn't soften it. "If I am to be your wife—” I let the sentence hang.

  "Fair enough. Jason Seth filed the claim of the mine next to Silver Sky. At the start, it looked as though he had found a better vein of ore than we had. This strike is to the Nevada territory as the gold in California was there. There's enough. When a claim runs dry, file another.

  "Jason Seth wasn't of the persuasion to give in. It's possible he should have." He paused, looked toward the door to the sitting room, as if he had heard something or was listening to be certain we weren't overhead. "His mines played out fast. Where claims around his produced, his gave up nothing but dirt and minerals. The harder he tried, the worse his results."

  "I don't understand," I said. "Why, if the mines around his were flourishing?"

  Hutch made a motion with one hand, as if brushing away a fly or moving past the question. "The man holds his pennies dear. He didn't pay for anything he strictly didn't have to pay for and it showed. His workers were angry and disinterested. His mines were dangerous and not the best claims that could have been made. He shored up the walls cheaply and suffered cave-ins or rather, his miners did."

  "Could he have prevented the cave-ins?" The man seemed victim of a streak of bad luck as all around him others were finding luck in streaks of silver.

  "Not completely. But to a much greater extent. Latticing of beams holds back the earth when you dig under it. Filling the lattice with cast-off rock helps support the structure. Mines need fans for air and, in many mines here, there needs to be a drainage system to pump out the water."

  "And Jason Seth?"

  "Didn't, for the most part. He cut corners. He skimped. He lost miners and, after a while, the only men who would work for him were those no better than he is."

  Which didn't answer the main question. "Then why would he shoot Ma—Mr. Longren?"

  He gave me a look I couldn't interpret and said, "The mines are playing out now. Ore is becoming harder to find and the market for it is thinning. We're going deeper into the ground, finding more ways to use machinery and steam power to extract the silver. Mrs. Eilley Bowers went bankrupt some four years ago, and she was the richest woman in the world."

  I waited, my fingers laced tightly together in an effort to stop myself reaching out to him.

  He looked awkward, as if unsure how to proceed, which made me wonder if there was yet a reason for Mr. Seth to have shot the younger Mr. Longren, although, in truth, the former sounded unpleasant enough to shoot someone simply to shoot him.

  My future husband cleared his throat. "Miss Lucas, it might have been unfair of me to ask you to come out here and to marry me. Our mine is playing out fast and there's little enough money left. My—"

  He stopped, cleared his throat and took a breath, and I knew where he was going to go. "Mrs. Longren's health was fragile for a year before she passed. There were ... expenses. It has not been easy, and I did not have the right to ask you—"

  "—Please," I said. I couldn't think of anything to say about his wife. The subject was upsetting him. "Perhaps—"

  He took a breath, not listening to me. "My wife's health wasn't good. There were many medical expenses, and then, when we thought there'd be a child…" He didn't finish that sentence. "Jason Seth doesn't understand that all the mines are playing out, and no amount of talk will convince him that Silver Sky is drying up. He believes we still have ore, and that we stole the claim from him."

  I knew better. I'd heard the stories of buying the mine in letters, and of Matthew deciding to join Hutch and their sister, Annie, following them both to Gold Hill from California. "And Matthew?"

  "Was seeing Mr. Seth's sister, Bess, until late when an argument between them ended the courtship. Miss Seth was of the opinion that we should sell her brother, Jason, a stake in our claim. She believed she would then marry Matthew and join our families."

  I remembered sitting near the fire on a Boston winter's night as my Mother read a letter from Mr. Longren, in which he described his brother's fights in saloons and the women who came to call, the number he was courting and the ribbons and dresses they wore just for him, the fights they hissed between themselves over which of them he'd choose. Matthew settling down seemed unlikely. Matthew settling down with someone like Mr. Seth's sister not only seemed unlikely, but incendiary.

  "You're smiling," Mr. Longren said.

  "Just a little," I returned. "The younger Mr. Longren's … escapades … are not unknown in Boston." And at that, I forced myself to brush aside a small ember of jealousy that had no right to exist.

  His mouth twitched, just a little, but what he said was, "We shall have to marry fast, so that you can call him Matthew and perhaps, learn to call me Hutch. Calling a reprobate like my brother Mr. Longren is farfetched."

  I laughed at that, then asked, "His engagement?"

  His eyebrows went up. "Such a strong word."

  "The courtship, then. It broke off recently?"

  "Most recently," he agreed. "But not so recently that we haven't had time to see which way the wind blows. Jason Seth wants revenge. He feels his sister's honor is sullied and that she can no longer hold her head high in Virginia Cit
y and its surrounds, or so he says. He feels that he is owed a stake in our claim and, denied that, he is out for whatever he can get, in whatever way he can get it."

  I contemplated the best way to phrase my next question. Hutch watched me, head tilted. Finally, I said, "Was this, err, an isolated incident?"

  That made him actually laugh, though he sounded rueful. "Matthew has been seeing the daughters, sisters and cousins of many local gentlemen, none of whom ever shot him before—not even the Mayor, whose daughter was quite convinced she had extracted a promise."

  I stood and paced to the window, pulling shut the bright yellow curtains another woman's hand had hung. The night seemed too vast, as if curious eyes stared in. "But, surely Jason Seth has no legal claim." I stopped, because that was stupid.

  "And so he took other action," he said. "He was drunk and angry and he doesn't have the sense God gave a goat." He cleared his throat, ran a hand over his face. "If he'd waited. Or if Matthew hadn't seen fit to court Miss Elizabeth Seth, then Jason would have known the truth. He soon will anyway—that we are mining more dirt than silver—and he will know the precarious financial grounds upon which we stand, and then I fear he will seek other means to avenge himself upon us. And you have thrown in your lot with this family, but you did not have this information before. Much has changed in the week you traveled from Boston and I promise you, I did not misspeak on purpose. I will make the best life for you that I can, but I will understand if you wish to return to Boston."

  He looked at me then, and I wished those strong hands would follow his eyes. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to touch me. I did not want to be sent away. Not anymore. The fears of the afternoon had fled.

  "Are you asking me to leave?" I asked for the second time.

  "I'm asking you to stay," he returned again. "But with more disclosure." His eyes were serious. He didn't smile and I felt a shiver build, despite the heat of the night and the closeness of the room.

  "I would like to stay, Mr. Longren. I would like to marry you soon and learn this place and understand about your household and help you as I may. Surely there are women having children here, and the doctor didn't outright challenge me."

  "Close enough," he said, but he was smiling.

   I didn't smile back. "Maybe I can help. In Boston, there was so little need for my skills."

  "So I am to be your project?"

  I think he meant it lightly, but his voice carried something deeper that made my hands clench. "You are to be my husband," I said.

  Our eyes met. Nothing outside the kitchen existed; not heat or desert or silver ore or gun fights, not Matthew on the davenport or the howl of coyotes coming through the clear air of night.

  "I should show you to your room," he said, and stood at once, knocking his chair back as if something had suddenly made him anxious. He held out a hand to me.

  I took his hand. Mine was damp and I wanted to laugh at that, but my fingers trembled and my legs were very tired. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen to light a lantern from the oil lamps and then I let him lead me through the kitchen door and down an ill-lit hall, where shadows flickered.

  He'd put my trunk in the room he'd prepared for me, the room some neighbor had probably scrubbed and oiled and waxed until it gleamed in the lantern light. He lit the lamps there for me, and stepped back so I could enter.

  A four poster bed heaped with pillows stood before me. Light curtains hung in the windows but, in the uncertain light, they no longer seemed a cheerful yellow. There was a sampler above the bed, something embroidered I didn't take the time to read, and a pitcher and bowl upon the dresser.

  I turned to thank him and found him standing close. I did not step back. My breath caught.

  "Take tonight," he said, and I thought he meant something quite different until he added, "If, tomorrow, you're still of a mind to stay, we shall marry."

  I'm already sure, I thought, and pushed away the stray thoughts of other blue eyes and dark curls.

  Hutch reached to give me the lantern and our hands touched, fumbled at each other, and then the lantern had been put down on the floor and his hand was over mine.

  My skin caught fire. My hand burned like I held on to nettles. I didn't think, only turned my hand upright within his so our palms touched. His breath came faster. My free hand fumbled, found its way to his chest. Under the coarse work shirt, I could feel hard muscle and the pounding of his heart.

  He slid his other arm around my waist and pulled me to him. Our hands still held to each other, burning hotly. My mouth opened. I looked up slowly, met his gaze, and couldn't look away. He searched my eyes, looking for an answer. I didn't look away, didn't close my eyes, until he moved, so slightly, then lowered his head toward mine.

  My chin tipped up. My mouth met his. My eyes closed and the tension inside me all at once let go so I could sink against him and, at the same time, coiled up so that inside, I felt like a storm about to break.

  His lips were chapped, roughened by the heat and dry of the desert. His hands were hot, burning against my skin. Our hearts pounded together.

  He didn't stop. I'd been kissed, a time or two, polite goodnights from Boston boys, who would call again but eventually faded away.

  This was nothing like that. Hutch Longren was older, taller, stronger and bigger, pressed against me with heat and the scent of the sage and the dust of this place. His mouth moved over mine, his teeth found my bottom lip, his tongue darted out to taste my lips. Before I had been kissed; on this night, in this strange new place, I kissed in return. I tasted him, the coffee he'd drank, the sweetness of sugar he'd added to the last cup. His heat was like the desert night.

  There was nothing to stop us. We would be wed soon. Fear crept up. I'd never anticipated this, never joined in the talk of friends. I felt young and foolish and, at the same time, too old for such feelings and afraid he'd find me naive.

  I was afraid he wouldn't stop and that I wouldn't stop him and, at the same time, I never wanted it to end.

  He let go of me abruptly. From the sitting room had come a harsh cry. Matthew was awake, had moved, perhaps in his sleep, his injury forgotten until the stab of pain woke him. He didn't make another sound but Hutch Longren pulled away from me until only our hands remained linked. Hands and eyes.

  But he was clearly thinking now, worrying about his brother, and I collected myself enough to nod in that direction. "Make sure he's alright," I said and tried to reclaim my hand.

  He smiled and drew my hand to his lips before he released it. "Sleep well," he said, and was gone before I could think of anything to say.

  Heart pounding, I stepped into the room he had prepared for me and shut the door.