Mining for Love (Mountain Men of Montana Book 2)

by Dana Alden

  Delia tried to keep her face neutral, but she was looking forward to J.B.’s reaction. She tried to sound casual. “From my new friend, Big Bertha.”

  J.B. froze in place except his jaw, which dropped open. Delia peeled with laughter. She had liked Bertha more the more she thought about their encounter the day before. She equally liked teasing J.B., too.

  Delia grabbed J.B.’s hand and drew him over to stand before the tubs. “Bertha said the Chinese launderers pan for gold. I ran my hands round the bottom of the tubs, and I can feel some sand and grit, but what little I could pull out with my fingers didn’t seem to have any gold in it. I don’t know if there’s none here, or I’m doing it wrong. I’m not actually panning, I know.” She took a breath and kept going. “I know it’s silly, but the idea of finding my own gold, even gold dust, is so exciting. Will you teach me, J.B.?”

  J.B.’s shocked expression turned to alarm. Delia realized she was hanging off his arm, wringing his hand. She let go and stepped back, nearly tripping into the nearer tub. J.B. grabbed her arm. He shook his head again, and she found she was growing to dislike that gesture of his. She regained her balance and then slipped her arm free.

  “Not a problem,” she said. “There’s plenty of miners who’ll be happy to help me, I’m sure.” She walked over to the side of her cabin and lifted her apron off a hook. “Thank you for the fire ring. You have a good day digging.” She busied herself with tying the ribbon behind her back. She knew from experience when she had created a perfect bow. Then, she gently tugged on one tail so that one loop was a little smaller than the other.

  J.B. looked from Delia to his knapsack with his tools and supplies for the day. She didn’t like that his mining was more important than her, which was rather unfair, she acknowledged to herself. But she didn’t want to acknowledge it to him. She took a page from Bertha’s book. She threw out her hands in a shooing motion. “Go on, then.”

  Her sour mood turned quickly at the offended look on J.B.’s face. He clearly did not like being shooed out of his own yard. Delia couldn’t help but laugh, which confused him further. But she had suddenly seen the ludicrousness of arguing over sticking a pan in a tub of dirty water and hoping fortune would smile.

  “Truly, J.B. I’ll manage. Go on to your mine. I can see it’s where you want to be.” She smiled and hoped he realized how genuine her olive branch was.

  J.B. shifted his weight from one foot to the other, back and forth, and once again Delia had the feeling she was a wild animal that J.B. feared would attack. Finally, he stopped, and said, “I’ll help you. You’re going to need to do it now if you want to be able to do any other washing today.” Given how dirty the tub water was, Delia couldn’t argue with that.

  Instead of reaching into his knapsack, J.B. entered his cabin and quickly came back out with a tin pan, round, with sloping sides, but fairly flat. He handed it to Delia.

  “Don’t you take this to your mine?”

  “No,” he said, as he rolled up his sleeves. “This is for gold panning – in the water. I do hard rock mining. I’ve got my pick ax, my shovel, and my rocker box for most of my work. Now, come over here and I’ll show how to use this.” He took the pan back from her.

  Delia imagined using the pan to scoop water out of the tub. She’d look in the water for gold…and then what? There had to be more to it than that.

  J.B. held the pan flat between his two hands. He reached into the tub and scooped up some of the sandy silt from the bottom along with the water. Holding the pan under the water, he moved it forward and back, forward and back. Then, he carefully lifted it out of the water and began to swirl it in a circle. Occasionally, he’d pour off a little water.

  “Won’t the gold dust get poured out?” Delia asked, even though, peering over J.B.’s arms, she couldn’t see anything that looked like gold.

  He gave a small shake of his head, but kept swirling in a clockwise motion, his eyes glued on the pan. “You see, gold, in general, is heavier than everything else in the pan. Even the gold dust is heavier than the water. It’ll collect…” he paused to point, “…here, where the sides of the pan are joined to the base, along this edge.” He returned to swirling and pouring. Finally, he stopped and reached into the pan and pinched out a tiny grain of gold. He held it out on his fingertip, to Delia. The morning sun rising behind them shone and caused it to glint. She held out her own finger and J.B. carefully pressed his to hers, until it stuck to her fingertip. She gazed at in awe. Here she was, in a city devoted to discovering gold. She had this teeny tiny particle, but still felt a wave of excitement and hope crash through her. This. This was why people gave up all comforts in hope. In hope.

  They were both leaning over her gold-tipped finger. She smiled at J.B. He smiled back at her. She whispered, “What do I do with it?”

  He whispered back, “You collect it, and more like it. I’ll give you a poke bag. When you have enough, we’ll take it the assayers office for weighing. For now, do you have a handkerchief you can wrap it in?”

  Delia nodded and then began walking to the cabin. She held her finger out in front of her, not taking her eyes off the little spot of gold. She moved slowly, lest she create a wind that would blow her new fortune away. Inside the cabin she used one hand to carefully lay out her kerchief. She placed the grain of gold in the middle, folded it up precisely, and tucked it into a jar which she placed on the shelf. Once completed, she heard a voice behind her.

  “If you move any slower, it’ll be yesterday.” J.B. had followed her and stood in the doorway, waiting. “Why don’t you come back over and try panning by yourself, before I leave? Make sure it sticks.”

  Delia was too excited to take issue with his quip about her speed. She slid by J.B. and rushed back to the tub. She rolled up her sleeves and then grabbed the pan, plunging it into the water. She held it underwater like J.B. had, and swirled it about. Suddenly, J.B. reached over and placed his hand on her wrist, stopping her.

  “Hold on, Delia! You’re not stirring up lemonade. Go back and forth, back and forth.” He tried to move her hand, but they weren’t in sync. He started to reach his other arm around her, and then stopped. “Uh, may I?”

  Delia gave a quick nod. He reached around her until his front was to her back, with both of his arms wrapped around her, his hands on her wrists. She couldn’t help but blush.

  “Like this,” he said, gently pushing her hands forward, and then pulling them back. He created a rhythm, occasionally murmuring, “Back and forth.” She felt his warm breath on her neck. A little shiver ran down her spine.

  “Now, raise the pan out of the water,” he murmured in her ear. She raised the pan up, pouring some water off the side.

  “Hold it level,” he added. “Now, swirl.” With his hands on her wrists, he helped her establish a rhythm of when to pour and when to swirl. It was a paradox. She would be able to do this without him, but with his arms around her she could barely focus enough to remember to move the pan around.

  After a few minutes of swirling and peering, swirling and peering, they stopped to look for gold. They spotted two flecks of gold in the water, caught on the edge in the bottom of the pan. At first, she stared at them, thrilled to see the gold. But then, she was made aware again of J.B.’s arms around her, an unnatural stillness in him that told her he was as aware of their intimate position as she was.

  “So, ah…I will…I can do this,” she said, quietly. “Thank you, J.B.”

  She waited, and J.B. stayed as he was for a moment longer than she expected, longer than necessary. When he withdrew his arms from around her, she heard him expel a deep breath. She held the pan still, aware of him as he stepped back from her. Out the corner of her eye, she saw him unrolling his sleeves and buttoning them, fumbling. Finally, he grabbed his knapsack and hitched it over his shoulder. Before he left, he stood looking at her. Delia wondered what he was going to say.

  “See you tonight,” was all he said before turning and walking out the yard.

&nb
sp; Delia focused on the two gold flecks in the pan. She carefully placed the pan on her wash table, preparing to claim her gold.

  Chapter Eleven

  J.B. sat at his table, ostensibly carving a block of wood, but in fact watching Delia. She stood in front of his stove frying up a ham steak and potatoes. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. Her cheeks and nose were red from spending the days in the sun. J.B. couldn’t begin to acknowledge how much he appreciated coming home to a pretty woman cooking his supper, or how much he’d missed that sense of family that a woman brought.

  Coming home after a day working his claim and sometimes finding Delia had finished up her work early and was cooking supper for them both…well, it was a fine surprise. They didn’t have a regular schedule, but J.B. could see how easy it would be to fall into the routine of a married couple with her…except that they lived in separate cabins and she considered herself engaged to his friend. He couldn’t decide if she actually believed Cal was coming back to marry her or not.

  J.B. looked down at the wood block in his hand. He’d been out in Montana Territory for a little over a year helping to carve out a new world. He enjoyed the adventure of discovery and blazing a new path…even being a part of Manifest Destiny. He was expanding the borders of the United States of America…bringing democracy and Christianity across the continent. At least, that’s what he’d thought.

  Now, watching Delia putter around the stove, he wondered if what he had wanted all along was simply to strike it rich so he could settle down and raise his own family in peace and prosperity. She came out West for a better life. Wasn’t he doing the same?

  Delia looked over and saw him watching. She offered a gentle smile. “It’s ready.”

  She took two plates off the shelf and loaded them with ham and potatoes. J.B. took his carving block and knife and placed them on the floor beside his chair. He brushed the wood shavings off the table. Delia placed the plates on the now empty table. She crossed the room to select a fork and knife for each of them.

  J.B. looked at the line of her back. From the moment he met her, he’d seen that she was a sturdy farm girl, but now after even just a short time, it appeared she was getting stronger from carrying buckets and scrubbing clothes. Her slender frame moved with strength and grace.

  She came back and sat down across from J.B. She reached over to place his fork and knife next to his plate. The fork slipped and clattered against the plate, a jarring noise after the peaceful silence they’d been enjoying.

  Delia’s eyes flew to his face. “Oh! I’m sorry! I’m…” She slowly pulled her hand back to her side of the table.

  “Not a problem,” J.B. said, picking up the fork and knife. He began to cut his steak, as though nothing was amiss. But inside, he seethed. It wasn’t very Christian of him, but he was glad her husband was dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Delia pushed back a hank of damp hair from her forehead. It was early, and still cool out. There even remained some frost hiding in the shadows, so unlike any late August that she’d ever experienced before. But over the washtub of warm water, which sat on her workbench, and next to the fire heating up the boiler pot, the air was warm and wet. The morning sun reflected off the wash water and blinded Delia. She turned her head away and realized with a start that a man and a dog were standing in the yard, not ten feet from her.

  As her eyes adjusted, she saw an older man of middle height and considerable grime smiling at her. His brown hair, tanned and grubby face, and soiled clothes gave him a consistently brown coloring from head to toe. Only his teeth and the whites of his eyes were lighter. But his smile was charming and his cheeks dimpled.

  The dog didn’t have dimples but did tilt its head in a way that was charming for a dog. He was little, with wiry brown and white hair.

  “Pardon me, Ma’am,” the man said. “I’ve just returned to town from an extended expedition and I heard you’re taking in laundry.” He shifted the armload of clothes he had pinned against his side. “I’m in desperate need,” he added with a waggle of his brow.

  Delia couldn’t help but smile. She was glad for the business, but equally glad for the good spirits of this man.

  “Put your linens over there,” she said, pointing to a basket on the ground next to her table. As he walked over to do that, she wiped her hands on her apron. The dog followed, sniffing all around.

  “I’m Mrs. Watson.”

  “And I’m Charles Chatsworth Dawson, but folks call me “Chatty.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chatty.”

  “Is there a Mr. Watson?”

  Delia wanted to groan. The men always asked. She repeated her line. “My fiancé is out of town but he’ll be along.”

  “Are you marrying J.B., then? Now why’s he off gallivanting when his lady is here alone? Though I imagine he has so many fellows that’d protect you with their own lives, after what he did in the war for them, that you’re plenty safe.”

  “No, sir, not J.B.” Delia had heard a few references to J.B.’s time in the War Between the States, but he wasn’t willing to talk it about with her. She was tempted to ask Chatty but didn’t want to encourage personal inquiries. To stave off more questions, she said, “I expect I can have your wash done and dried by…” Delia paused a moment to check the sky for rain clouds. There rarely were any, but force of habit kept her checking. “By day after tomorrow.”

  Chatty nodded his acceptance of the schedule, but he didn’t leave. He stood there, surveying the hanging lines, washtubs, and boiler pot and then Delia again.

  “It’s a real pleasure to see a feminine face in these parts. Especially such a pretty one.”

  Delia gave a small nod of thanks. She’d become accustomed to the compliments of the men of Virginia City and rarely even blushed anymore. There were so few women that somehow, she reminded every man of some special girl back home. Chatty’s compliment felt genuine and kind, and not lecherous like some of the men. Even so, she turned back to her wash.

  But still he didn’t leave.

  “Yup, I’ve been leading a group over to this area that has lots of geysers and mudpots. Very unusual landscape,” said Chatty. Delia glanced up and he nodded his head as though responding to a question from her.

  “Not many people over that-a-ways,” he continued, “but more and more since Colter first explored it.”

  Delia couldn’t help it. She usually didn’t encourage the men to hang around, but washing clothes was not a job to take up her mind like it took up her hands. And this man had a way of talking; like a born storyteller. “Colter?” she asked, standing behind her washboard, scrubbing slowly so the slosh of the water didn’t drown out Chatty’s voice.

  “You don’t know John Colter?” he exclaimed. She shook her head. “Oh, Mrs. Watson, what a man he was. He came west with the Lewis and Clark expedition, but never left. Hunter, trapper, guide. An all-around man. Even good for negotiating with the Indians.” He leaned over to peer into the tub where she was heating clean water. It was just starting to give off little wisps of steam. “Well, except that one time.” His eyes slid over to hers and the twinkle told her he was just waiting for her to take the bait.

  Delia pulled the shirt she was scrubbing out of the tub and twisted it to squeeze out the water. She took her time, pretending she wasn’t curious about “that one time.” Finally, she dropped it into a tub of clean water.

  “Alright,” she said as she grabbed the next shirt to be scrubbed. “You’ve got me wondering. What happened to this John Colter?”

  That’s all it took to get Chatty chatting. He spun the tale of John Colter, canoeing down a river with his partner. “He was ‘round forty years, give or take, back in 1808.” With his lighthearted voice Delia could picture in her mind the two men looking for beavers to trap. Then, they encountered a band of Blackfeet braves. Chatty described how Colter was disarmed and stripped naked.

  Delia blushed. This wasn’t the kind of story she was used to back home. Chatty’s voice turned serious whe
n he described how the partner was shot, and then shot again, to death, when he didn’t do as told. But then his voice lightened again, when he told how the Blackfeet told Colter to start running. And so, the naked man did, as fast as he could while they chased him.

  “And finally, he dove into the river and came up inside a beaver lodge.” Chatty nodded. “Yup. He grabbed the beaver by the tail, told it to scooch, and stayed there till the coast was clear.”

  Delia realized she was sitting back on her heels, the wet shirt motionless in her hands, dripping down the washboard.

  “And then?”

  “And then he had a long walk back to civilization. Naked.” Chatty waggled his brows again and Delia laughed.

  “You spin a yarn like no one I know,” she said with a smile that wouldn’t come off her face. “You should rent a hall and collect fees.”

  Chatty looked startled, and for the first time since she met him, a little less confident. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Watson.”

  Chatty looked around the yard once more.

  “Well, I’d better be moving along. I can see you have plenty to keep you busy. I’ll be seeing you day-after.” He tipped his hat to Delia. “Now, where’s that dog of mine?”

  Delia heard a slurping noise and looked under the table. The little dog was lying there with her bar of lye soap between his front paws. He was gnawing on it like bone.

  “Oh, you! Shoo! Little devil! Go on!” she stomped her foot at the dog and he took off running out of the yard. He dropped the soap half way there. Chatty picked it up and handed her the dirty, dog-slobbered, tooth-marked bar.

  “Apologies, Mrs. Watson,” he said.

  She watched Chatty walk out of the yard and turn south down the road. Back home, it would have been considered an inappropriate – or certainly questionable – story for a young woman. Colter’s story would have been censored – unclothed, it might have been whispered, at best. Delia loved the freedom of Montana Territory. It was hard living, but it was her own choice of living. She was glad she had come here, even though things hadn’t worked out as she planned. The problem was, would she keep going like this forever?