Strong and Stubborn (15 page)

Everyone took a restorative sip of chocolate at the thought. Naomi engaged in a silent argument with herself, trying to decide whether to draw out Lacey for a more detailed account of her experiences or if her cousin and friends needed a moment of levity. She looked around, seeing that ultimate social signal that someone needed to steer the conversation: the sweet buns sat untouched.

“Marvel though the Pivot Corset may be,”—Naomi allowed a wry note to enter her tone—“it wasn't the new garment that caught everyone's attention when you reappeared. You ordered something else from the Montgomery Ward catalog without telling us, didn't you?”

Lacey stuffed an overlarge bite of bun into her mouth, chewing slowly to delay her answer. Evie and Cora began nibbling during the wait. Naomi smiled and enjoyed a bite of her own pastry. She'd made the right choice. The conversation now offered both amusement and instruction, holding Lacey accountable for those appalling trousers.

“Well.” Even if her cousin typically arose in an amiable mood, her tone would have been overly bright. “I could've sworn I'd pointed them out to everyone since the name is so clever. And yes, I wore my new Waulkenphast half boots yesterday. Although they are plain, I can't complain about comfort. They're entirely practical.” She shifted her skirts and flexed her foot, displaying the boots.

“While an admirable attempt to
sidestep
the issue …” The rest of Cora's comment was lost amid a round of good-natured groans.

“I hadn't realized it, but it's been a long while since any of us punned.” Evie grinned at the revival of their old game. “Lacey took last honors. After Granger caught him, she told Twyler that my chances of hitting him brought new meaning to the term
long shot
.“

“That wasn't so long ago—just over a month.” Naomi briefly relived that awful day. Granger revealed that he'd come to Hope Falls tracking his brother's killer. Spooked by Granger's pursuit, the murderer panicked, kidnapped Lacey, and forced a showdown. Justice had been served, but Naomi couldn't help but worry. “Please tell me you won't make a monthly habit of terrifying us, Lacey!”

“I don't plan to.” Lacey sniffed. “Listening to you, anyone would think I asked Twyler to abduct me or begged Draxley to light that fuse. It's not as though I routinely endanger my own life!”

“Of course.” Evie took a dainty sip of cocoa. “It must have been another woman who donned britches and raced off to investigate a sabotaged mine. What were we thinking to make such a mistake?”

“Touché.” Lacey shook her head. “Though exploring the mines was more of a calculated risk. They'd been stable for months and in all likelihood would have remained so if it weren't for Draxley.”

“For a moment, we'll ignore the myriad of perils presented by any mine, much less a system of tunnels already compromised by a cave-in.” Naomi paused, allowing everyone to imagine those unnamed perils. “Tight trousers are no calculated risk, Lacey. Our comportment as ladies is one of our few protections against lascivious advances.

“It was bad enough when you insisted on accompanying Dunstan on his hunting trips, but at least the workmen didn't notice your absence. Now it escaped no one's attention that you slipped off, indecently clothed, to spend time with Dunstan in a secluded space.”

“I'm sorry it seems so unsavory.” Lacey sounded duly contrite. “But I couldn't let Dunstan go alone, and if there was any chance to bring back proof, I couldn't let Braden down. Showing him that the cave-in wasn't his fault is the only way to bring my brother back, and in spite of all that happened, I can't say I regret going.”

Naomi knew she'd already given one lecture but couldn't stop herself. “Frankly, Lacey, it's fortunate that you and Mr. Dunstan stopped fighting long enough to acknowledge your attraction to each other. If he hadn't offered the protection of an engagement, you would have opened yourself to dishonorable advances. At the very least, you would have ruined your chance of marrying a good man.”

She stopped there, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Dimly, she heard Lacey apologize for endangering them all, but Naomi didn't believe her cousin truly understood her precarious position. Lacey's life wasn't in danger any longer, but her way of life was. A fallen woman had no hope of happiness. And the worst part of it was, Naomi couldn't tell her cousin the true reason behind her concerns.

I don't want you to go through the same heartbreak I did
. Part of Naomi longed to give Lacey the truth.
That kind of sorrow, the constant shame and uncertainty, is no way to wake up every morning
.

Mike woke up groggy and disoriented, the noise of the bunkhouse reassuringly unfamiliar. The splash of the washbasin and irregular thunk of men shoving boots on their feet almost varnished over a few last stubborn, spluttering snores. It was about as far away as a man could get from waking alone in an overly elaborate Baltimore bedroom.

Galvanized by the realization he was one of the last to rise, Mike lurched from his bed and just about clocked himself on the upper bunk. In truth, the loggers' bunks were little more than two wooden shelves, built wide and well supported at frequent intervals, running along three of the four walls. The pallets were rendered comfortable by exhaustion rather than padding, but Mike didn't mind.

He'd worked hard enough yesterday to fall asleep on the bare ground, and he fully intended to work that hard all day, for six days a week, until he'd secured a home for himself and Luke. With only two exceptions, his bunkhouse mates stood tall and broad as the trees they felled, testimony to a logger's strength and endurance.

Their swift exit from the bunkhouse gave another testimony—that Mike needed to hurry if he wanted to enjoy some breakfast! Mouth watering at the thought, Mike made short of his morning wash. He threw on his clothes, strapped on his teeth-marked knife sheath, and wondered whether he could make it through the day without shaving.

Stubble pricked the palm of his hand when he felt his jaw, making Mike grab his straight razor and soap. He'd seen a cloudy mirror hanging above the washbasin, but another man was using it. Oblivious to the dark streaks running from his obviously blackened hair, the man methodically finished shaving and rinsed his razor.

“All finished.” When he turned around, Mike could see that the man was a good bit older than the others he'd seen. The man eyed Mike's bar of soap before producing a small brush. “Would you like to borrow this? I always need one to make a good enough lather.”

“Thanks.” Mike accepted the offer and quickly filled his face with thick suds. After rinsing and drying the brush, he returned it.

“Anything to welcome the new man in town.” He returned the brush to his shaving kit. “You can call me Gent, by the way.”

“Mike Strode.” Making quick, short strokes of the razor, Mike couldn't shake the man's hand. “Any reason why they call you Gent?”

“Old-fashioned wisdom.” His new friend donned a top hat, carefully tilting it at a jaunty angle that hid his bald spot. “A fondness for good manners, and of course, my sense of style.”

What did a man say to a logger sporting a top hat? Nonplussed, Mike splashed away the soap residue while he thought it over.

“I can see I surprised you.” Gent spared him having to answer. “Good of you not to look concerned, since I'm entirely sane. Besides, you'll soon see that an acceptance of the unusual is a valuable trait for someone choosing to set up in Hope Falls.”

“You're comfortable in your skin, that's all.” Despite his oddity—or perhaps because of it—Mike warmed to the man. He offered a grin. “Seems to me we ought to worry about the people who aren't.”

T
ry as he might, Braden couldn't make himself comfortable. He couldn't ignore the persistent throbbing of his injured knee, which he'd pushed hard this morning. At least he could bend it farther than yesterday. He kept imagining that if he just tried hard enough, he could push past some crucial point of pain and he'd be beyond it.

So far Braden hadn't passed that point.
Maybe tomorrow
. Or the next day. He was determined to be able to bend his knee ninety degrees before the week's end. At that point the doctor promised Braden would be permitted to use a wheeled chair. For now, the doctor refused to bring the contraption into the room. The man claimed it was unhealthy to fixate beyond the current goal, but Braden harbored his own suspicions. Most likely the good doctor kept the chair out of his reach because he knew Braden would seize the thing, muscle his way into the seat, and wheel himself away if given the slightest chance. Or, at the very least, he'd try.

“Leave it to you to enlist the services of a retired army surgeon,” Dunstan griped by way of greeting. “The man is small, but I'd wager Doc gets his way more often than you or I manage.”

“If I kept a tally, I'm afraid he'd have a hundred to one ratio against me.” Braden tried to keep the bitterness from his tone. Doc, after all, was the one who'd signed over the management of Lyman Estates to Lacey. Even after Braden recovered from his concussion, Doc refused to rescind the orders. Apparently he'd seen too many men make uncharacteristically poor decisions after suffering trauma.

“That's why it's best not to keep score.” Dunstan moved more slowly than usual, cautiously lowering himself into the chair. Although his friend didn't complain, Braden recognized the signs of suffering. “Besides, we have more important matters to discuss.”

“Draxley.” It was a name, a question, and a curse in one.

“Last night I didn't go into detail. It didn't seem prudent.”

“I wish Lacey shared some of your prudence.” Braden sighed. But what was said couldn't be undone, and the newest addition to Hope Falls knew more than he should. And what the man didn't know, he showed an uncanny ability to deduce. “What else did you discover?”

“As we suspected, the original cave-in was caused by carefully placed explosives, rigged together and detonated in one fell swoop.” Dunstan shifted in his chair and wordlessly accepted the pillow Braden passed his way. Once he'd wedged the brace against the chair back, Dunstan seemed more at ease. “Much the same way Draxley set his charges yesterday. Lacey discovered the fuse while we poked around, but it was too late. Draxley engineered things so that we'd be trapped in the bowels of the mountain long after he ran out.”

Braden's rage at Dunstan's revelation squeezed his chest and cut off his breath. He couldn't begin to calm himself until black spots swam across his vision. He'd known last night of Draxley's duplicity, had surmised that the greedy telegraph operator intentionally made the mines collapse atop Lacey and Dunstan. But something about the way the hunter spoke about being trapped in the bowels of the mine triggered memories of other men who'd suffered the same fate—but weren't fortunate enough to tell their story.

“But before he left us like rats to scramble through his own maze, Draxley grew chatty. His partner disappointed him on the day of the cave-in by racing back into the mines.” Dunstan paused as though unsure whether to divulge more. “Trying to save you, Braden.”

The tight, squeezing sensation abruptly ended, leaving his skin and skull feeling oddly swollen. Refusing to become light-headed, Braden grappled with the implications of Draxley's confession. Very few men knew of the massive gold vein they'd unearthed in the midst of the Hope Falls silver mine—and only one of them came rushing in, gasping with panic, moments before the world turned upside down.

“Why are you here?” Owens had shouted. “You shouldn't be here!”

“My partner.” Braden sagged against the headboard, staggered at the depth of the betrayal. “I don't want to believe it of Owens, but it makes a horrible sort of sense. He'd known me for years. Knew me well enough to guess that I wouldn't be able to reopen the mines if I thought I'd made a fatal mistake and gotten all of our workers killed. I would've given him my share to try and make amends.”

“Honor isn't something to regret, Lyman.” Dunstan's words did little to comfort Braden as he added, “Integrity itself isn't a flaw, but the predictability of an honorable man can be exploited.”

“If you're trying to cheer me up, you'd do better to call Doc back in here.” Braden gave a slight stretch and ended the experiment with a hiss. “Telling a man he's easy to exploit is bad for morale.”

“If you want to look at it that way, it's disheartening.”

“How else am I to look at it?” Braden seethed. Even when he'd been whole, he'd been unable to protect those who depended on him.

“I read some redemption in the loyalty you inspire. It's convoluted, but Owens forfeited his own life trying to save yours.”

“The death of a trusted friend—however unworthy—is cold comfort.” Braden choked on an impossible mix of grief and loathing. Owens survived the collapse and Doc sent him home to recuperate—but he never made it. A damaged blood vessel burst in his brain before they took him off the train.