From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
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it hard,” Clay replied. “Brought you another worker. A kid from New York City. Got off the train at the water tower and was left stranded. I’ll take him back next month.”
The man stepped closer, lifting the storm lantern higher. The light fell on his features. Between the brim of his hat and the thick black beard Annabel could see a hooked nose and a pair of shrewd dark eyes.
“I’m a good worker, sir.” She deepened her voice. “I’ll earn my keep.”
The man studied her in the light of the lantern. “Polite, too,” he said. “I have nothing against a kid. It’s women I can’t abide.”
He turned his attention to Clay and questioned him about the delivery. Annabel slid down from the pack mule, alarmed by the man’s blunt words. In silence, she waited while the burly mine owner went to hang the storm lantern on a hook beneath the kitchen canopy. He returned to take the mule by the rope and led the animal to the open cavern, where he began to strip away the load.
Clay had dismounted and was moving about in the darkness. Annabel could hear water sloshing and the clang of metal, perhaps a bucket being set down on the ground, and then slurping sounds as the buckskin lowered its head and drank.
In the yellow glow of the storm lantern and the flickering flames of the bonfire, the men and animals formed eerie shadows, appearing as insubstantial as ghosts as they went about their business, appearing to have forgotten all about her.
Driven by hunger pangs, Annabel edged toward the kitchen canopy. There was a table, with four log stumps as stools, a work counter with shelves above, and a sheet metal stove, similar to the one she’d learned to use while staying with Liza and Colin in their freight yard shack.
On the stove stood a cast-iron pot. Annabel touched one soot-covered side. Still warm. She leaned closer and inhaled the succulent smells. Rummaging on the table, she found a spoon and ran her fingers over the surface to make sure it was reasonably clean before she dipped the spoon into the thick stew and ate in greedy mouthfuls.
Behind her came the thud of footsteps. Annabel spun around, feeling like a child caught at the cookie jar. Clay said nothing, merely reached over to a shelf for a tin plate and filled it with a wooden ladle he took down from a peg.
He picked out a metal spoon from a box on the counter and sat down at the table to eat. “There’s cold water to wash.” He jerked his chin toward a wooden barrel on the ground outside the kitchen canopy. “We sleep under the rock overhang,” he added. “I’ll find you a blanket.”
Shivering with cold, Annabel hugged her body with her arms. She could feel the humidity in the air, could hear the wind gathering force. “Mr. Hicks said something about a storm,” she commented. “Will it rain?”
“Like the angels are tipping buckets over us.”
Clay took another mouthful, gestured with his spoon. “Go wash your face. I’ll fix you a bed.” His eyes lingered on her. “Got no coat?”
Annabel shook her head. “I left it on the train.”
She resisted the urge to touch the money poke hanging around her neck. Instead, she pulled out the tails of her shirt and unfastened the canvas pouch tied around her waist and swung it from her fingers. “I have my own soap.”
“Your own soap, huh? Ain’t you a real gent?” Clay lowered his gaze and focused on his meal.
Annabel went to the water barrel, found an enamel bowl and a ladle propped against the side and scooped water into the bowl. A mirror fragment hung on a piece of rawhide string from a nail hammered into the canopy post. In the dim light Annabel caught her reflection. Embarrassment broke through her fatigue as she noticed the tear tracks on her dusty skin and knew Clay Collier must have noticed them, too.
She scrubbed her face clean, dried her skin with the tails of her shirt. By the time she’d finished, Clay was waiting beside her with the storm lantern. He guided her to the overhang, where a blanket had been spread out on the hard-baked earth.
“You can use your boots for a pillow.”
Annabel glanced around while Clay put away the lantern. Another blanket lay next to hers, and farther away Mr. Hicks was already stretched out and snoring, a hat covering his face. The fire had burned down to coals. The mule and packhorse filled the other end of the cavernous overhang.
“Will someone stand guard?” she asked.
“No need.” Clay stretched out, unbuckled his gun belt but kept his boots on. “The buckskin will hear if anything comes. Wolves don’t stray this far south, and we’ve had no trouble from bears. Go to sleep.” He rolled over, turning his back on her. A minute later, Annabel could hear the sound of his even breathing.
Clay woke to a crack of thunder. Lightning flared, throwing the pine forest higher up on the hillside into a stark relief that made him think of fingers pointing toward the sky. An instant later, darkness closed around him again, but his mind clung to the image of a small shape sitting on the ground near the edge of the overhang.
He waited for another flare of lighting. When it came, he knew his eyes hadn’t deceived him. He tossed his blanket aside and rolled to his feet, as agile as a mountain cat. Instead of strapping on his gun belt, he pushed the heavy Walker Colt into his waistband and eased over to the kid.
He dropped down to his haunches. “There’s no need to be scared, kid. It’s just a storm, and the ground slopes away. When the rain comes, the cavern will stay dry.”
“I’m not scared.” The kid’s voice was dreamy. “I love thunderstorms. It is different here. At home, you can hear the fury of the ocean and smell the salt spray. The seagulls screech in warning. A storm can mean death to a sailor.”
Clay listened, fascinated. Years ago, he used to carry around a book of poetry he liked to read from, but he had never heard anyone talk like that.
The kid went on, “Here the entire nature participates in the storm, like an orchestra playing a symphony. Thunder roars. Lightning cracks. The wind wails in the trees and the cliffs echo it back, multiplying the sound.”
Clay nodded in the darkness and spoke softly. “When the rain comes, it will add a drumbeat. Sometimes the water cascades down the cliffs so hard you can hear the rattle of pebbles as they roll along.”
Lightning was almost constant now. He could see the kid’s face, in quick snatches as the darkness broke. The delicate features drew his eyes. He liked looking at the kid, although he struggled to understand why. Maybe it reminded him of Lee and Billy, the other two kids he had tried to rescue in the past. Those memories were painful, but he found that looking at the kid gave him pleasure.
“I shouldn’t really like storms,” the kid said. “A storm took my parents. They drowned when their boat capsized. My father was a seaman.”
Clay nodded. His eyes searched the darkness, waiting for another flare of lightning, waiting for another glimpse of the kid. “I know what you mean,” he said quietly. “Sometimes a man can like something without understanding why.”
* * *
The storm passed overnight, and Annabel awoke to a bright dawn. With caution, she surveyed the cavern. The men were gone, their bedrolls and blankets neatly folded on a natural rock shelf by the entrance. At the opposite end, where the animals had sheltered, the stone roof sloped down, and in the far corner she could see a stack of equipment partly covered by an oilcloth tarpaulin.
Satisfied no one was watching, Annabel scrambled to her feet. The aches and pains from the tumble from the train made her wince. She patted her bowler hat, to make sure it remained securely in place, then ran her fingers beneath the brim, to tuck back out of sight any strands of hair that might have escaped. Next, she stamped her feet into the big boots, folded away her blanket and walked over to stack it with the others.