Lessie: Bride of Utah (American Mail-Order Bride 45) (15 page)

Lessie and Richard joined the unmarried men in the mess hall for breakfast. The long log building was crammed with men filing in to fill their plates. Some sat on benches at tables or set against the walls while others carried their empty plates back outside.

How her husband would locate Edgar Kerry in such a mass of humanity, she didn’t know. Nearly every miner dressed in dusty trousers and coats, wore hats, seemed fully interchangeable.

But Richard did find Kerry, maybe because he stood several inches taller than Richard, who was otherwise one of the tallest men in the room. Kerry balanced a tin plate full of flapjacks and ham slices in one hand two apples in the other.

Lessie noticed Kerry’s unease, but no one said no to the boss. Richard asked to see Kerry for a few minutes.

“Yes, Boss. But, if it’s all right with you, I prefer to have this conversation without an audience.” He flicked his dark eyes at Lessie.

No hostility, no threat.

The man was watching his back— something Lessie understood fully. She could see Richard did, too.

“I’m fine here, Richard.” She glanced about the busy room, certain of it. No women about, as the men who’d brought their wives and children with them to Big Ezra likely ate in their individual cabins. But the men were so focused on their meal, no one paid her any attention.

“You’re coming with me.” Richard had yet to release her hand since they’d removed their bedding to the wagon and set out through the dark mountainside toward the mess hall. “I’ll set you up a ways away where I can keep an eye on you while Mr. Kerry and I visit in private.”

His protectiveness really was sweet. “I’ll be perfectly safe here. I’ll eat and stay inside this building. I promise.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You’ll be back before I’m through the line with our breakfast plates. I’ll hold you a place. Go on now. Mr. Kerry’s waiting.”

Chapter Twelve

Several days later, Richard and Lessie had fallen into a comfortable routine. They slept snug in the office, rolled up their bedding, ate in the mess hall and in the evening did it all in reverse.

In the absence of any further incidences, no more
accidents,
and very little progress made in gathering information from the few men who would confide much to him, Richard would leave her in the company of the women while he continued interviewing the men.

He knew she’d done interviewing of her own. She’d talked to every woman in camp under the pretense of checking on their living conditions and then charged
him
to make their lives easier.

He’d seen a lot of the Bossy Miss he’d first met at the train depot. And he rather liked pleasing her.

Meanwhile, he’d talked to every man who’d known Herman Trengove— and not one had known he’d been married. All Herman had left behind in the way of worldly possessions was one change of clothing, the pocket knife and the ten dollars he’d had in his pocket— curious he hadn’t tucked that money inside the letter to Emilie, now wasn’t it?

The office door banged open. Maurice Gibbons dragged mud inside on his boots. “Your wife’s a menace, Boss. In fact, I heard one of the men referring to her as
Loose Cannon
.”

Richard stilled. He fought the sudden urge to grab Gibbons by the collar and demand an explanation. Keeping his voice as level and calm as possible, he forced the knot in his shoulders to ease. “Come again?”

“That pretty young thing, your
wife
.”

“I’m full aware who my wife is, Gibbons.” And just how young and how pretty.
Mine
. “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

“That woman of yours is all over this camp, asking questions. First, of all the women, and I don’t have no problem with all that. Women talk to each other and that’s just how things are. But then she cornered a couple of the boys we got workin’ the stables, but the Ferrier and blacksmith? She met the night shift leaving the digs and asked them twenty questions on the way in to breakfast.”

Richard’s jaw ticked. The soreness and overriding ache in his molars warned him he’d been clenching his jaw, more or less, since arriving in Big Ezra. “Such as?”

“I dunno.” The foreman lifted one thick shoulder. “I heard she’d asked them what caused cave-ins. She wanted to know what we did to prevent such occurrences.”

Play dumb, Cannon
. If his wife were really asking about the incidents as the foreman believed… at least
one
of them had to sustain the myth of obliviousness. “Why would she ask the blacksmith and ferrier about tunneling?”

“What gets me is she asked
them
about the men who died. It seems she thinks somebody targeted them, particular.”

“Huh.” Richard kept his attention squarely on the books spread open on the scarred table in a pool of lamplight. To meet his number one man’s eye would threaten exposure. He couldn’t risk it. “Doesn’t make much sense, now does it?”

“Not to me, but I never pretended to comprehend a woman’s mind.”

“The only reason I bring this to your attention, Boss, is the men are jawing about it. I heard ‘em over morning grub complaining about her meddling. One of ‘em asked if she was impersonating a proper newspaper reporter.”

He shook his head, doing his best imitation of a man mystified by all that made a female tick.

Not good. Not good at all
. He’d have to talk to her, and fast. Whatever she was up to, it had to stop. What on earth had happened for her to so quickly forget his earnest instruction to mind everything she said and everything she did? If he didn’t intervene, something a whole lot worse than a supposedly random attack could happen.

I can’t lose her.

“Any idea where she is?” Richard pushed away from the table.

The other man shrugged. “Probably down
in
the mine harassing the working men by now.”

“I take your point. I’ll talk to her.”

Your wife is a loose cannon.

Loose Cannon.
The nickname seemed right fitting for a woman named Lessie who didn’t seem to comprehend she’d crossed the boundary from obedience into serious danger… or if she did, didn’t care. She charged right in, did just as she pleased… and carelessly risked the Cannon legacy.

Panic skittered through him, like a horse spooked by a nest of rattlers.

He had no doubt she believed herself safe enough in this little community. But there was so much about mining towns she didn’t understand.

Men operated under a whole different code out here. Territorial law meant nothing, given the closest tin star couldn’t get here for hours, if summoned, and the way things operated year in and year out suited them all just fine.

Rarely, if ever, was the law summoned. As the foreman had the ability to fire any worker, he was the law as far as the men were concerned.

The camp took care of its own.

But Lessie, as the owner’s wife, was in a class by herself. Apparently, even the foreman didn’t dare chastise her.

Whether she liked it or not, she was Richard’s to protect. The woman wore his ring on her finger,
his name
, for Pete’s sake. She didn’t know the first thing about mining camps, the rougher elements the work attracted, the lack of the law hereabout. Why she’d not realized that after finding a murdered man, he didn’t understand.

He found her in the company store, questioning the shopkeeper.

He’d intended to overhear at least one question, and any answer the shopkeeper disclosed, but that plan had blasted straight to dust when the clerk met his gaze with a hint of fright in his eyes, cleared his throat, and fumbled a few cans of chew he must’ve been arranging on a shelf when
Loose Cannon
had cornered him.

Damn if the nickname didn’t fit.

Richard flexed his hands once, twice. He strode directly toward his wife whose eyes slowly widened. “Good afternoon, husband.”

Ensuring his touch was as gentle as could be, Richard took Lessie’s upper arm and walked her to the door. This conversation wouldn’t happen where a soul could overhear them.

“Where are we going?”

“I have a hankering to spend some quality time alone with my wife.”

“What do you mean, quality time?”

“We’re taking a ride.” He ushered her inside the stables, nodded at one of the roughly twelve-year-old boys who kept the mules and horses. “One saddle mare, quick.”

The boy did as instructed, and in two shakes Richard swung into the saddle. He reached to Lessie. “Give me your arm.”

“I am not getting on the same horse as you.”

“You are and you will. Give me your arm.”

The boy’s eyes widened and he skedaddled.

Lessie folded her arms, defiance sparking in her eyes, even without benefit of sunlight to reflect in their depths.

“Woman, you try my patience.”

“Give me one good reason I should get on a horse with you.”

He considered giving her the only reason that mattered— because as her husband, his word was law— but he figured that would make her madder than a wet hen.

“Look around you. Do you see another horse? They’re all working the mines, dragging rail cars along the tracks. I don’t fancy riding a mule and neither should you.”

“Oh.” She lost some of her defiance.

“Your arm?”

With obvious reluctance, she reached for him and he pulled her up to sit across his thighs.

She bit back a squeal of fright.

“You’ve never ridden before.”

“N-no. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“We’re not going far.” He had a place in mind, just far enough from camp to assure them privacy enough to talk, with a wall of rock at their backs and enough clear area to ensure they could see anyone coming.

Some things couldn’t be said if they might be overheard.

“Turn to face forward,” he urged, grasping her hips and turning her himself. “No, don’t. Leave your knee right there.” He helped her hook her knee over the saddle horn, mimicking sidesaddle, except she sat squarely on him, not the saddle.

This could be an unbearable ride.

She clung to the saddle horn with both hands, her body stiff and unyielding. He grasped the reins in his right hand and looped his left arm about her middle.

With the barest of nudges, he directed the mare out of the barn and away from all the commotion.

He replayed the foreman’s conversation over and over to keep his ire up and forget his lovely bride sat on his lap. It was easier to manage frustration and anger and disappointment and betrayal than attraction.

After what felt like two or three hours, they’d finally traversed the two and a half miles as the crow flies and he lowered her to her feet. He swung down behind her and tossed the reins over a branch.

Her round, dark-brown eyes put him in mind of a doe. Soft, feminine, engaging.

He had to remember his anger.

“Woman,” he began, making no effort to hide his aggravation or his interest, “you’d better have a darn good reason for disobeying me.”