From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
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that polite,” Mr. Hicks replied. “You got breeding, kid.”
Pausing to wash at the water barrel, Annabel inspected her appearance in the mirror fragment, not out of vanity but to make sure her disguise remained undisturbed. She continued into the kitchen and settled on one of the log stumps.
Mr. Hicks clattered a tin mug onto the table, poured in the thickest and blackest coffee Annabel had ever seen. He pushed the mug in front of her. “What do they call you, kid? Andy?”
Annabel took a sip of the bitter brew and shook her head. There was safety in the familiar. “My friends call me Scrappy.”
“Scrappy, huh?” Clay reached over and pinched his forefinger and thumb over the slender muscle on her upper arm. “We’ll soon fix that. Get some meat on your bones.”
When he withdrew his touch, the edge of his thumb brushed against the side of her bound breast. Annabel flushed. A strange tingle skittered along her skin, and she covered up her agitation by adjusting her weight on the log stump seat.
Mr. Hicks banged the pots and pans at the stove, came over to set a plate of ham and beans in front of her and settled at the table. She thanked him and ate in silence, observing the men, listening as they discussed the mining.
Mr. Hicks was more bark than bite, she decided, and Clay was one of those people who held his emotions tightly bottled up inside. Last night, during the storm, she had sensed a melancholy in him, but in the daylight he presented a front as closed and forbidding as the cliffs that soared behind the kitchen canopy.
When Clay got up to rinse his plate in the bucket that stood on the floor in the corner, Annabel took the opportunity to speak. “If you tell me what you like to eat and where everything is, I can help in the kitchen. I am accustomed to a stove like that.”
“Tomorrow,” Clay said. “Today I have another job for you.”
He gestured for her to follow. Annabel leaped to her feet and hurried after him, clumsy in her big boots. Clay paused to collect a sledgehammer from the low end of the cavern, and then he led her to the other side of the clearing where four huge timber spokes jutted out from a central hub, like a horizontal wheel set into a circular stone pit. Annabel could see two large rocks hanging on iron chains from the spokes.
Clay halted by the edge of the stone pit and studied the smaller rocks that filled the bottom. He picked up one, discarded it, selected another and straightened with the stone in his hand. “Do you know anything about mining, kid?”
“I thought it is done with pans in creeks.”
“That’s placer mining. We’re lode mining.” He gestured at the rocks covering the base of the stone pit. “That’s the ore. We dig it up in the mine and bring it here. This device is called an arrastre. The mule gets harnessed to one of the spokes and turns the arrastre around. The big rocks chained to the spokes crush the ore. That frees up the gold to be separated with water, just like in placer mining.”
He smiled at her. The low morning sun caught his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Annabel felt a sudden tug in her chest. Green. His eyes were green, like the ocean by Merlin’s Leap. Oceans were mostly blue, Papa had told her, but the Atlantic by the Eastern Seaboard was usually green.
“Today,” Clay continued in a solemn tone, “the mule is tired from carrying you, so you’ll have to do his job for him.”
“I couldn’t...” Annabel stared at the arrastre, imagined herself harnessed to one of the spokes. She frowned at Clay. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Not at all. But you’ll crush the ore one piece at a time.”
He carried the small rock he had selected a few yards away and placed it on a big flat stone that stood inside a timber circle. He hefted up the sledgehammer and smashed it down on the piece of ore, breaking it into fragments. With a few more blows, Clay ground the fragments into rubble and swept them down to the ground within the timber circle.
“Watch your eyes, in case any stone chips fly up,” he instructed. “And try to make sure the pulverized ore stays inside the fence, so we don’t lose any gold.”
He handed the sledgehammer to her. The weight made her drop it.
Clay grinned. “You are meant to hit the ore, not your toes.”
He fetched another small rock from the arrastre, placed it on the stone slab. Annabel heaved up the sledgehammer and smashed it down. The piece of ore glanced off and landed on the ground outside the timber circle.
“Let’s try again.” Clay bent down, replaced the ore on the slab.
Annabel swung the hammer. Again. Again. Every blow jarred her arms and shoulders, but the rock resisted her efforts.
“Like this.” Clay took the sledgehammer from her.
At the fleeting touch of their hands, Annabel could feel the strength in him, could feel the roughness of his palm against the back of her fingers. Acutely aware of his nearness, almost as if he was touching her even when he wasn’t, she watched Clay lift the sledgehammer with one hand, then casually swing it down again. The rock crumbled into rubble, and he swept the remains down into the timber circle.
“Try a smaller rock,” he suggested.
This time Annabel chose a piece of ore the size of a grapefruit. She swung the sledgehammer. The rock merely bounced up and down. She turned to Clay. “I understand the task. You can go now.” She gestured at the arrastre. “It is not as if I am in danger of damaging the equipment. I think I can work without supervision.”
Clay contemplated her, shifted his shoulders and walked off. Annabel waited while he spoke to Mr. Hicks and then vanished out of sight behind a dried-up oak that leaned against the cliffs, presumably hiding the entrance to the mine.
The instant he was out of sight, Annabel attacked the piece of ore, using the physical task as a means to ease the mental agitation that had taken hold of her. She searched her mind for a suitable sea shanty from the repertoire Papa had taught her and her sisters and sang as she pounded, determination in every blow. A rock would not get the better of her. Not as long as there was a spark of life left in her.
* * *
Clay stepped into the harness and jerked the ore-filled cart into motion. The arrastre was already full from the labors of Mr. Hicks the day before, so he left the cart at the mouth of the mine tunnel and returned inside to collect the storm lanterns that eased the darkness and made the seam of gold glitter in the rock face.
Curious to see how the kid was getting on, Clay mopped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve, adjusted the brim of his hat and stepped out into the sunlight. As he sauntered toward the arrastre, he could hear the steady pounding and a grim, breathless voice singing some kind of a tune.
He never kissed his girl goodbye...pang
He left her and he told her why...pang
She drank and boozed his pay away...pang
With her greedy eye on his next payday...pang
She’d robbed him blind and left him broke...pang
He’d had enough, gave her the hove...pang
Clay halted, mesmerized by the sight. The kid was flinging the big hammer high, nearly leaping into the air to increase the arc of his swing, and then he brought the hammer down, his whole body driving the motion.
Clay’s gaze fell on the rounded posterior. With each blow, the kid bent over, and the baggy pants pulled tight over his rear end. Clay felt his gut clench. Aghast, he closed his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him?
Gritting his teeth, he marched over, fighting the confusion and panic that surged within him. “That’s enough.” His tone was brusque. “You are scaring every living creature for miles around with that hollering.”
The kid whirled around and smiled at him. “It’s a sea shanty. Sailors sing them to accompany their