From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
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being alone after Mama and Papa died. At what age had Clay lost his parents? Or could it be that he’d never known them, had been abandoned at birth. She longed to find out more, but Mr. Hicks had already declared he’d shared the sum of his knowledge, so she chose another line of questioning.
“How long have you been at this claim?”
“Since April. If we want to stay on when the winter comes, we’ll have to build a cabin, or at least a wall to enclose the front of the cavern. Winters are fierce this high up in the mountains.”
“Is there much gold in the mine?”
“Some. Might be more, but we ain’t found it yet.”
“Are there other claims nearby? Is the area rich with strikes?”
“This here country is called the Mimbres Mountains, after an Apache tribe with the same name. There’re still a few Indians around, but they haven’t bothered us none.” Mr. Hicks paused to inspect his pipe. “There was a big strike in Hillsboro some years back. That’s ten miles north of here. They have a town there, with stores and everything.”
“Why don’t you get your provisions there?”
“Don’t get on with the storekeepers in Hillsboro.”
Mr. Hicks spoke in a tone of bitterness. Annabel suspected there were lots of people in the world with whom the gruff old man did not get on. She pushed her empty plate aside. “Can I help with anything?”
“Give your hands a rest, kid. Take a walk around. There’s a creek over yonder.” Mr. Hicks took the pipe out of his mouth and used the stem to point. “And the horse and mule graze in a small meadow a mite down the hill. If you learn your bearings today, you can carry and fetch when your blisters heal.”
He took a few more puffs in silence, then resumed talking. “I have a friend in Valverde, fifty miles north up the rail track. He puts provisions on the train and the conductor leaves the parcels in the mailbox by the water tower. If we run out, we hunt for food, or we go hungry.”
For another ten minutes, they lingered at the table. Annabel learned the mine tunnel was narrow and the men took turns to work in the cramped space. When it was Clay’s turn, Mr. Hicks took care of the chores around the camp. When Mr. Hicks went down the mine, Clay harnessed the mule to the arrastre and crushed the ore. Mr. Hicks did not like the task, for he did not get on with the mule.
“We had another saddle horse and two more pack mules when we came out prospecting,” Mr. Hicks explained. “But we had to sell them to pay for supplies. As soon as we have money to spare, we’ll replace them, or at least the saddle horse. It’s no good for a man to be without transport of his own.”
“What are the horse and mule called?” Annabel asked.
Mr. Hicks frowned. “The horse is called a horse, or the buckskin. The mule is called the mule.” His expression grew bleak. “Better not to treat them as pets. Makes it easier to shoot them if you have to.”
Clay’s warnings about the old man’s temper rang in Annabel’s mind, but she steeled herself against an outburst and asked the question that had been playing on her mind. “Mr. Hicks, what do you have against women?”
He gave her a long look, then fastened his gaze on the line of trees beyond the clearing. “They promise you paradise, but they give you hell. You’re too young, kid, but when you grow up you’ll figure that a woman can be all sweetness on the outside and poison on the inside. They lure a man with honeyed talk but stick the knife of betrayal between your shoulder blades when you turn your back. Mark my words, kid. One day you’ll find out.”
Annabel hung her head, ashamed. What she was doing now, interrogating him about his past while dressed as a boy, was a betrayal, in a way. Uneasy, she got to her feet. “I’ll go and see if I can find my way to the creek.” Casually, she added, “Do you ever bathe in the stream?” Her scalp was starting to itch, from the way her hair was coiled tight inside the bowler hat.
“Sure, kid. There’s a good spot for bathing.” Benign again, Mr. Hicks gestured at her bandaged hands. “Take your time, kid. If you peel off the dressings, the cold water will soothe your skin. I have some mending to do. There’s a hole in my boots the size of Alaska. When you get back, you can help me prepare supper.”
* * *
Clay lowered the pickaxe and blinked against the dust in his eyes. A lantern hanging from an iron peg hammered into the rock cast a dull sphere of light. Normally, Clay didn’t mind the sense of being trapped inside the earth. There was peace in being underground, surrounded by silence, and the hard physical labor of a miner cleared a man’s troubles from his mind.
But today his mind found no comfort in the steady clink of the pickaxe against the seam of ore. Clay told himself it was because the thin vein of gold was petering away, threatening the future of the mine, but he knew it was a lie.
The cause of his unease was the kid. The scrawny kid who filled his thoughts in the way no scrawny kid should be allowed to do. With a grunt of frustration, Clay lowered the pickaxe and bent to pick up the canteen by his feet. He uncapped the lid, tipped his head back to drink. Not a drop of water left inside. Clay sighed, reached to the rock ceiling to take down the lantern and used it to guide his way out. At the mouth of the tunnel, the bright sunshine made him squint.
As he waited for his eyes to adjust, Clay spotted the kid emerging from the cavern. There was something stealthy about the kid’s movements, the way he glanced all around, as if to make sure no one was watching. Curious, Clay drew back against the sunbaked cliff, hiding behind the dried-up oak that shielded the mine entrance.
He watched as the kid set down the path, heading toward the creek. The kid was not carrying a bucket, so he was not fetching water. An empty flour sack hung draped over one skinny forearm, like a towel. In his other hand, the kid carried the bar of soap he’d been so proud about.
Clay hesitated. The kid seemed to relax, sauntering along. He was humming one of those sea shanties, not taking the time to study his surroundings. There could be anything out there in the forest. A bear. A mountain lion. Rattlers liked to coil up on rocks that reflected the heat of the sun.
Clay set off to follow the kid, but he kept his footsteps quiet and hung back, remaining out of sight. His gut seemed all tied up in knots. Guilt and shame and a terrible sense of confusion filled his mind, like a headache pounding at his temples.
The kid came to a halt by the creek. Bright rays of sunshine cut through the canopy of trees, like rich seams of gold. The water made a merry gurgle as it rippled over a boulder, gathering into the tiny pond they had dammed for bathing.
The kid hopped onto a flat rock and ducked to set the flour sack and the cake of soap by his feet. Then he removed the bandages from his hands and took a moment to study his palms. Next, he lifted his hands to the buttons on the front of his threadbare shirt. Peeking between the trees, Clay held his breath.
What was wrong with him?
Why did he want to watch the kid strip down?
Curious. He was curious. And concerned. There had been something odd in the way the kid had glanced about him before setting off to bathe. And those baggy clothes the kid wore, and the way he never took off his hat. Maybe he was covering up some injury—scars from an accident, or some defect he was born with.
Clay kept watching, the turmoil of emotions anchoring his feet to the ground. The kid pushed the cotton shirt down his narrow shoulders. Clay’s brows drew into a frown. He’d guessed right. A wide bandage circled the kid’s torso, covering him from armpit to waist.
With nimble hands, the kid undid the clasps that held the bandage secure and began unraveling it. Loop after loop, the fabric fell away, revealing an expanse of smooth, white skin. His shoulder blades protruded slightly on either side of the narrow groove of the spine. Angel’s wings, Clay had once heard someone describe such a feature, but that had been on a woman.
He could see nothing wrong with the kid, no deformity, if