Sweet Boundless (17 page)

Not truly, though. Wolf was not a savage, and Rose not a harlot. How would she let him know that? Carina shook her head. From the start her connection to Quillan had been fraught with fury and dismay. Would that ever change?

The lake came into view, and she realized she’d been lost in her thoughts most of the two-hour ride. It was deplorable manners. “I apologize, Mr. Makepeace. I’ve not been a friendly guide.”

He smiled easily. “I’ve no quarrel with quiet, Mrs. Shepard. That two individuals can share a companionable silence is friendly enough for me.”

She searched his face a moment, then directed his attention to the lake. They were not coming toward it from the most dramatic angle, as she had, but it was lovely enough. On the lakeshore, they shared the lunch, which Mr. Makepeace praised profusely.

“It’s the mountain air, Mr. Makepeace. It adds God’s own seasoning.”

“I believe you.”

“Now tell me about this vein you’re following.” It was a safe enough subject, and as she guessed, Alex Makepeace held forth at length while they finished their meal and wandered a short way along the lake. She listened with more interest than she’d expected. He made the operation sound fascinating, and she could hear his pride in the endeavor. She felt herself relax and even questioned him.

“But isn’t it dangerous for the men with the thermal instability of the giant powder?”

“Every aspect of mining has its hazards, Mrs. Shepard. Not just the powder. Machinery failure accounts for more accidents than powder explosions.”

“What sort of machinery failure?”

“Oh, for instance, the winch that lets the basket down the shaft. If the chain breaks, as all too frequently they do, the basket hurtles down the shaft sometimes sixty feet or more. Men are thrown out or hit bottom with such force . . .” He shook his head. “No, there’s nothing safe about the mining trade. But men don’t do it for safety or they’d be pushing a plow instead.”

“Why do they do it, Mr. Makepeace?”

He formed a solid smile. “There’s nothing like it, Mrs. Shepard. You against the very earth with only your wits, strength, and fortitude. You face the danger every day. And when you conquer . . . ah, there’s no feeling like it.”

There was a sort of fire in his eyes when he spoke, and Carina felt a shadow of the pride he exuded. “Is that how it is for you also, Mr. Makepeace?”

“Now?” He looked surprised. “No, not now. When I went to Cornwall to learn the trade, starting from the bottom up, yes. But that was only the start for me. I went to university and learned engineering. Now I oversee the operation. I’m not involved in the nitty-gritty anymore.”

Carina smiled. “You sound disappointed.”

He smiled back. “No. But I must admit I miss the fraternity. When your life lies in the hands of your fellow workers, there’s a bond with them you won’t find outside of it.”

“But why is it so dangerous? Aren’t there ways to make it safe?”

He hunched his shoulders and dropped them. “There are too many unknowns, and our technology can’t cover them all. Hit a pocket of bad air, the canary dies, and all you can do is run. If a fire starts, you better pray you’re first to the basket. If a mule backs a cart over you, if a winch chain breaks, if the fuse on the powder explodes before you’re clear . . . How could we cover all the contingencies?”

“But what happens to the injured men?”

“Some buy insurance against mining accidents that render a man unable to continue the trade.”

She waved a hand. “Such as limbs blown off, blinded eyes, or broken necks.”

He turned from the lake to face her. “Mrs. Shepard, life holds no guarantees. Men do what they must and take responsibility for the dangers therein. Even the law says as much. It’s called contributory negligence and fellow servant liability. I can’t be responsible for every action of every man underground that might contribute to an accident risking the life or health of the others.”

Carina considered that. She supposed the men did share the responsibility for their own safety. “What happens to those who are rendered unable to work?”

“They’re let go.”

She stopped, one foot on a crisp, grassy clump beside the softly lapping water. “You mean dismissed?”

He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Yes, if they’re no longer able to hold the job, they’re dismissed.”

“But are they able to hold another job?”

Mr. Makepeace rubbed the back of his hand up his cheek. “Not always.”

“Then how do they live?”

“Mrs. Shepard, there are cripples and unfortunates in every part of the world. They beg, they borrow, they steal. I don’t know how they live. Even the Lord said we’d have the poor with us. The churches care for them.”

Carina turned and looked back toward Crystal. “Which churches would that be, Mr. Makepeace?”

He was quiet a long moment, then, “Mrs. Shepard, forgive me for troubling you with concerns not your own.”

It was a polite way of telling her to mind her own business and not push him further. Carina recognized that, but she pushed anyway. “And if one day you are injured and unable to work?”

“Then I hope I’ll have handled my affairs well enough to see me through.”

“I’m sure you will have. But is that possible for a man on three dollars a day?”

He rubbed the heel of one hand against the other and eyed her squarely. “Probably not.”

At least he didn’t equivocate, and she respected him for that. His arguments had all been sensible and not vindictive. She guessed he was a good foreman, careful in every way he could manage. She wasn’t even sure why she had taken the tack she had. What were the miners to her?

Gathering clouds and a renewed chill sent them back to the horses, and the wind made conversation difficult on the ride back. Carina was glad. She had no desire to spar any further, especially with Quillan’s man. Did Quillan understand the conditions in his mine? Mr. Makepeace had given her a clearer picture than she’d wanted. How informed was her husband?

Mr. Makepeace left her at her door and, buffeted by the wind, led Daisy back to the livery, behind his steeldust. Carina went inside, wondering what she would do with herself. She had decided not to serve dinners on Sunday. Everyone needed one day free, she’d reasoned. But now her day threatened to stretch unbearably. And she couldn’t free her mind from the plight of the hard-rock miners.

TEN

I think God allows hardship so that in alleviating it, we might understand His mercy.

—Carina

THE MORNING BROUGHT SNOW, and when Carina stepped out to fill her basin, the air was so cold it hurt to breathe. She pumped the water swiftly and hurried back inside. Before she washed, she stoked the fire in the stove and warmed the water. No sense freezing if she didn’t have to.

After washing and dressing, she found Mae in the kitchen frying thick slabs of bacon and pouring hotcakes. Was there ever a morning without bacon and hotcakes? She thought longingly of warm, sugar-crusted
tarrele,
steaming coffee with real cream, sausage and peppers, and hard-boiled eggs. She sighed.

“World on your shoulders again?” Mae didn’t turn as she spoke. She flipped a long line of hotcakes, then returned to the front of the line and scooped them onto a platter. “Bring the coffee on behind me, will you?”

Carina lifted the large blue-speckled pot using a cloth around the handle and another at its base. She followed Mae into the dining room, where the men were stacked side by side as tightly as they could fit along the benches. Hungry men, gobbling up whatever they could to sustain them for their day’s work.

Some carried pie tins containing the lunches they would eat in the dark of the mines. Others made do with Mae’s fare until their ten- or twelve-hour shift was done, then came back for stewed beef. As Carina poured, she looked at the men whose cups she filled.

In the past she’d been disgusted by them, slopping like hogs, not even noticing what they ate or caring that it was the same thing day after day. She poured the next cup and noted the three-fingered grip that held it, the middle two fingers missing at the palm. She glanced at his face, and he smiled his thanks.

She moved on. They were all bundled against the cold, but they’d soon be warm enough with the steam that filled the tunnels. How would it be to go from the snow-filled air to the steam and back to the chill? No wonder so many of them suffered with incessant hacking.

Carina looked up and down the tables. There was not a trustee, store owner, lawyer, or judge among them, though Joe Turner and his managers sat at one end and Alex Makepeace in the center of another table. She emptied the pot and returned to the stove to brew more coffee. Suddenly what Mae did seemed so much more significant than her own dream.

Mae fed the masses wholesome, filling food, food to sustain them over hours of hard, torturous labor. Carina cooked elaborate, palette-pleasing fare for those who could afford more per plate than the men at Mae’s table earned each day. She felt . . . wrong.

It must have shown, for when Èmie came in to plan the day’s menu with her, she paused. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Well enough.” Carina suddenly gripped her arm. “Èmie, am I doing right?” She swung her arm toward her elegant dining room, not in sight from the kitchen but clear in her mind. “My restaurant, my fancy food, my fancier clientele. Is it right?”

“Right for what?” Èmie’s brow lowered.

“What of all the men who can’t afford four dollars a plate? Who don’t earn four dollars in a twelve-hour day?”

Èmie caught Carina’s hands together between hers. “What is it that’s bothering you, Carina? That you’ve done something special? Created an experience that Crystal appreciates?”

“What Crystal? The glitter that feeds off the poor?”

Èmie smiled. “Is that it, then? You feel guilty for catering to the upper crust?”

Carina threw out her hands. “I don’t know what I feel. I’ve made so much money this last week—and then I think of Lucia. . . .”

“Who is not working the cribs, thanks to you and your fancy food.”

“But so many others!”

Èmie brought Carina’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “You took me from the baths.”

“I know, but . . .”

“There’s nothing to say you can’t use your money any way you please.”

Carina felt the truth of her words. Yes. She could use the money she earned from the wealthy patrons to help those in need. That would be as good as what Mae did. And she could hire another girl. Lord knew they needed the help. She felt the weight lift from her.

“I must talk to Joe Turner about freighters.” She left Èmie wondering, no doubt, what freighters had to do with anything.

Joe Turner had risen and was starting for the door when she accosted him. “Mr. Turner, may I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Shepard.” He waited while his companions politely made their exit.

“I need far more supplies than I anticipated. Could you recommend some freighters who might be amenable to providing what I need?” Even she knew she couldn’t again go to Fairplay through the winter. Nor could she consider riding with a freighter who was not her husband. But neither could she wait for her husband.

He frowned in thought. “The freighters I use haul ore. But let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” Carina smiled. Joe Turner would move heaven to help her.

By the time he came for dinner that night he had three freighters willing to make the trip to Fairplay, and one of them to Denver if necessary. Carina suspected Joe Turner had used his influence somehow, but she didn’t ask. She was only thankful.

The next morning the first of them took the list she had made up, complete with the most each item should cost. He expected two days to make the trip, barring blizzards. Pleased, she agreed and sent him off. Another thought had occurred to her, but she needed to stock her larder before she could do it. Now it just remained to keep her wealthy clientele pleased enough to keep coming back.

Alex Makepeace listened to the creak and squeal of the winch letting the basket down the shaft. Four men rode together, their heads disappearing below the edge as the machinery lowered them to the depths of the mine. His conversation with Mrs. Shepard made him more aware of things than he’d been in some time.

Perhaps he should have the maintenance team do a thorough inspection. Such things cost time and money, but they saved lives. There was a thin line between profit and loss with the chanciness of silver prospects within the politics and economics of the country. His investors—no, his employers—expected the same margins as the other comparative mines, and many of them cut corners. The easiest corners being those that affected safety.

Setting the timbering farther apart, using fewer braces and planks, which kept the loose rocks from falling on the miners’ heads, cheaper grades of lumber more susceptible to rot and mildew—all these were established practices for improving profit. His group expected no less. Alex stepped aside as a new mule was led into the shaft house.

He watched two men tie it securely, binding its legs and blindfolding it so it wouldn’t kick itself or the sides of the shaft loose during its descent. They worked the sling under its belly, then hoisted it out over the shaft. The animal dangled there a moment, breathing its last clean air.