Thurston House (2 page)

Sorry ' I was thinking of something else. ' Someone else ' he looked into Hannah's wizened old face with a twinkle in his eyes.

Trouble with you is you don't think at all ' don't listen ' don't hear. '

Maybe I'm getting deaf, ever think of that? I'm almost old enough.

Maybe so. The twinkle in his eyes was met by the fire in hers. She was a feisty old woman, and he loved her that way. She had been giving him a bad time for years, and he counted on it. It was part of her charm, and an essential part of the banter between them. But now her face looked serious as she looked down at him from the porch. There's trouble at the Harte mines. Have you heard?

Jeremiah's brows knit in an answering frown. No. What happened? Fire? It was their greatest dread, all of them, they worked so closely with fire, and it could so easily explode into a costly disaster in the mines, taking countless lives as it ran wild. Jeremiah hated to think of it. But Hannah shook her head.

They're not sure. Influenza, they think, but it could be something else. It's running like wildfire over there. She hated to tell him that, hated to stir up the memories of Jennie, no matter how long ago it was. Her voice was gentle as she went on. John Harte lost his wife today ' and his little girl' and they say the boy is hard hit too, he may not live the night. ' There was a look of pain on Jeremiah's face as he turned away. He lit a cigar, stared silently into the night, and then turned to Hannah again. They've closed the mine. The Harte mines were the second biggest in the valley, second only to his.

I'm sorry to hear about his wife, and the girl. Jeremiah's voice was gruff when he spoke.

They've lost seven men this week. They say thirty of them are down with it. It sounded like the epidemic the year Jennie had died. There was nothing one could do. Nothing at all. Jeremiah had been with Jennie's father when she died. And they had sat silently in her parents' drawing room, as upstairs, her spirit fled, and there was nothing they could do except stare at each other in despair. Jeremiah felt his heart sink like a rock at the memory, and he couldn't even begin to imagine the grief of losing a child.

He wasn't fond of John Harte, but he admired him a great deal. Harte had fought hard and well to establish a decent mine, and it wasn't easy with the Thurston mines breathing down his neck. He had a harder row to hoe than Jeremiah had when he started out. Harte had opened his mine four years before when he was twenty-two, and he had driven himself and his men beyond anything imaginable. He wasn't always kind, and Jeremiah had heard from men who had left him to come and work for him that he was irascible and difficult, with a wicked mouth, and quick fists.

But he had a heart of gold. He was a decent, honest man, and Jeremiah admired him. He had gone to see him once or twice, and he too quickly saw some of the mistakes that the younger man was going to make, but Harte didn't want to hear any of Jeremiah's advice, in fact, he didn't want anything from him. He wanted to make it on his own, and he would in time. But Jeremiah grieved for him now, at the cruelty Fate had dealt, even crueler than that once dealt to him. He looked at Hannah now, not sure what he should do. He and John Harte had never become close friends. Harte preferred to view Jeremiah as a rival, and keep a good distance from him, and Jeremiah respected that. Don't fool yourself, Thurston, I'm not your friend, and I don't want to be. I want to beat your mines all to hell. And I'll do it fair and I'll do it clean, but if I can, you'll be closing your doors in a year or two, and everyone from here to New York will be buying from me. Jeremiah had smiled at the blunt words. The fact was that there was room for both of them, but John Harte refused to see it that way. He was courteous when they met, but he wouldn't give an inch. He had already had two fires and a bad flood, and once on a whim Jeremiah had offered to buy him out, in answer to which John Harte had offered to flatten his face if he didn't get off his land by the count of ten. But this had nothing to do with that, and Jeremiah made up his mind as he strode suddenly toward his horse. Hannah had known he would. Jeremiah was simply that kind of man. He had room in his heart for everyone, even John Harte, no matter how impulsive or sharp the younger man's tongue was.

Don't wait dinner for me. The words didn't even need to be said as he swung a leg over his horse. She'd be there anyway, if she had to wait all night. Go home and get some rest.

Mind your own damn business, Jeremiah Thurston. And then she had a sudden thought. Wait a minute! They would be too frantic to fix much of anything to eat. She ran into the kitchen and threw some fried chicken into a napkin, and put that and some fruit and a piece of cake into a saddlebag Jeremiah could carry with him. She rushed back outside and handed it up as Jeremiah smiled.

You'll kill them for sure if it's something you cooked.

She grinned at him. Be sure you eat some yourself, and take care you don't get too close to anyone. Don't drink anything, or eat their food.

Yes, Mother! And with those words he wheeled his horse and took off into the velvety night, thinking his own thoughts as he galloped over the hills.

It only took him twenty minutes to arrive at the complex surrounding the Harte mines, and Jeremiah was surprised to see how much it had grown in the few months since he'd been there. John Harte was doing well, but one could tell that something was wrong now. There was an eerie silence, and no one wandering from house to house, but in each cabin all of the lights were brightly lit, especially up on the hill. Every room of the main house seemed ablaze with light and there was a string of men standing outside, waiting to pay their respects to John Harte. Jeremiah dismounted and tied his horse to a tree a little distance from them, and carrying the saddlebag Hannah had flung up into his hands, he took his place behind the line of men. He was rapidly recognized, and a whisper went through them ' Thurston ' Thurston' . He shook hands with those he knew, and it was a little while before John Harte appeared on the porch. His face was ravaged, as though with pain, and there was almost a shudder of sympathy that went through the crowd of men below him. He glanced at them, recognizing each one, nodding as their eyes met, and then he saw Jeremiah at the end of the line, and he stopped and looked at him, as Jeremiah approached and held out a hand. And something in his eyes said that he understood the other man's pain. The others seemed to move back, so as to leave the two men alone, and Jeremiah held out a hand to him.

'I'm sorry about your wife, John ' I ' I lost someone I cared about a great deal a long time ago ' the epidemic of '68' . They were jumbled words, but John Harte knew that Jeremiah understood. He looked up at him with eyes bright with tears. He was a fine-looking young man, and he was almost as tall as Jeremiah was as they stood facing each other. He had raven black hair and eyes that were almost as black as coal, and he had huge gentle hands, in some ways, the two men were oddly alike, despite the gap of almost twenty years.

Thank you for coming, man. His voice was deep and jagged with grief as two tears ran unashamedly down the younger man's cheeks, and Jeremiah could feel an echo of the old pain in his own heart as he saw them.

Is there anything I can do? He remembered the food he had brought. Perhaps someone in the house could make use of it.

John Harte looked deep into his eyes. I lost seven men today, and Matilda ' Jane. ' His voice broke on the words. Barnaby's ' He couldn't finish what he started to say, at the mention of his son. He looked up at Jeremiah again. The doctor said he won't live through the night. And three of the other men have lost their wives ' five children' . You shouldn't even be here. He suddenly realized the risk Jeremiah had run, and was touched by that too.

I've lived through it before, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you. He noticed that the younger man was deathly pale, but he suspected that it was grief and not the dread flu. You look as though you could use a drink. He pulled a silver flask from the saddlebag he had brought and extended it to John.

He hesitated, took it, and then nodded toward the door of his home. Do you want to come in? He wondered if he was afraid, he should have been, but Jeremiah nodded his head.

Sure. I brought you some food, if you think you can eat. John looked at him, both surprised and touched, particularly since the last time Jeremiah had offered his help, John had almost thrown him out. He didn't want any help from him. But this was different. It was a different kind of disaster than a fire or a flood at the mines. He sat down heavily on the tufted green velvet couch in his living room, and took a long drink from Jeremiah's flask and then handed it back to him, staring at Jeremiah with unseeing eyes.

I can't believe they're gone' . Last night ' He started to gulp, fighting back his own tears' . Last night' Jane came running downstairs to kiss me good night even with her fever ' and this morning Matilda said ' Matilda said ' He couldn't hold the flood back anymore, and it came, as Jeremiah held his shoulders in both hands and held him there as he cried. There was nothing he or anyone could do, except be there for him. He looked up at Jeremiah at last, and Jeremiah's eyes were damp too. How can I go on without them? How? ' Mattie ' and my little girl' and if Barnaby ' Thurston, I'll die. I can't live without them. Jeremiah silently prayed that he wouldn't lose the boy, but he knew that there was a good chance that he would. He had heard as he stood outside that the boy was pretty bad off, or at least that was what the men said. But he looked hard into John Harte's eyes now.

You're young yet, John, there's a long life ahead, and it's a terrible thing to say to you tonight but you may marry again, have other children. Right now, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to you, but you'll go on ' you have to ' and you will. He handed him the flask again, and John took another sip, shaking his head, as the tears coursed down his cheeks.

And it was less than an hour later when the doctor came for him. John jumped up as though he'd been shot.

Barnaby?

He's calling for you. The doctor didn't dare say more, but his eyes met Jeremiah's as John raced up the stairs to his son, and in answer to the question in Jeremiah's eyes, he only shook his head. Jeremiah, sitting downstairs, knew instantly from the terrible moan of pain he heard from the little room at the top of the stairs that the boy was gone. John Harte knelt with the boy in his arms, keening for the family he had lost in two short days. With a determined step Jeremiah walked solemnly up the stairs, and gently opened the door to the room. Thurston took the boy from him at last, laid him on the bed, closed his eyes, and led John Harte from the room as he sobbed the child's name. He forced strong drink down Harte's throat and stayed with him until the next morning, when his brother and several other friends came, and then Jeremiah quietly went home, aching for him. He was exactly the same age Jeremiah had been when Jennie had died. He wondered how it would affect John Harte, but he suspected from the little he knew of him that the boy would press on.

He grieved for him now, and when he dismounted in front of his own house, with the morning sun climbing high into the sky, he looked out over the hills he loved so much and wondered at the cruel fate that could deal life and death so easily ' how swiftly life's sweetest gifts are gone ' he seemed to hear Jennie's laughter ringing in his ears as he went inside, and saw Hannah asleep in a kitchen chair. He said nothing to her as he walked past her into the parlor he never used, and sat down at the piano he had bought so long ago for the girl with the laughing eyes and the dancing golden curls lovely she had been. He wondered what it would have been like to be married to her how many children they might have had it was the first time in a long time that he had allowed his mind to run along those lines; he thought of John Harte's lost daughter and son, and hoped he would marry again soon. That was what Harte needed now, a new wife to fill his heart, and new babies to replace the two who had died.

And yet it wasn't what Jeremiah had done. He had remained alone for the past eighteen years, and it was too late now. He would never change that. He had no desire to. But as he sat looking down at the piano keys, yellowing now, never touched, never used, he wondered if he should have done what he thought John Harte should do. Should he have married someone else? Had a dozen children to fill his empty house? But there had never been anyone who captured his heart, no one he liked well enough to marry. No, there would be no children for him. But as he thought the words to himself, he felt a tiny shaft of grief slice through his heart' . A child would have been so nice ' a daughter' a son ' and then, suddenly, he remembered the two John Harte had lost, and he felt something inside him close tight. No. He couldn't bear another loss. He had lost Jennie. That was enough. He was better off like this ' wasn't he?

What happened? He was startled to hear Hannah's voice, and he looked up to see her standing in the empty room, as he fingered the piano keys. He stopped and looked at her, tired, depressed. It had been a long, sad night.

Harte's boy died. He almost winced as he remembered closing the boy's eyes and taking John Harte forcibly from the room. Hannah shook her head and began to cry, as Jeremiah walked slowly to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and led her from the room. There was nothing left to say. Go home and get some sleep.

She looked up at him and sniffed as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. You should do the same. But she knew him better than that. Will you?

I've got some work to do at the mines.

It's Saturday.