LYDIA STARED AT JACOB, stunned, though after a few moments of reflection, she decided she shouldn’t have been at all surprised by the encounter. On some level, she’d known all along that she hadn’t seen the last of her spurned bridegroom.
“Mr. Fitch,” she said, in stiff greeting, flustered and quite unable to hide the fact from him or the imposing deputies, one standing with his back to the fireplace, the other perched on the edge of a chair seat, as though prepared to leap up and give chase if she fled.
Thank heaven Rowdy was there, and clearly had no intention of leaving her alone with two strangers and the last man on the face of the earth she wanted to see.
Fitch approached her, stood so close that she could feel his breath on her face, fetid and hot. “‘Mr. Fitch’?” he countered, speaking gently for Rowdy’s benefit, and that of the deputy marshals. But she could see the dangerous fury in his eyes, the passion, not for her, but for revenge. “Come now, Lydia dear. You’ve never addressed me so formally before.” This was untrue; she’d never addressed him by his Christian name, but she did not refute the statement.
He lowered his voice then, to a whisper, a bare breath of air. “Are you—are you untouched?”
Color surged into Lydia’s face, but the source of it was indignation, not shame. Her first impulse was to lash out, to say that she had been thoroughly touched, but common sense warned her against it. In any case, it was none of Jacob Fitch’s affair, what had and hadn’t gone on between her and Gideon, nor was it something she would air in front of Rowdy and the deputies.
She remained stubbornly silent.
And something more frightening than fury moved in Mr. Fitch’s eyes then—a coldness that sent icy chills through Lydia. Of course he had interpreted her silence as an acknowledgment that she was no longer the virgin he’d reserved for himself.
In the next instant, he’d changed again. Become the magnanimous gentleman, willing to overlook an indiscretion. “Either way,” Jacob Fitch said, his voice swelling to fill the room again, “this silly little escapade is over.” He drew his watch from the pocket of his brocade vest, flicked open the case with a quick motion of his thumb. “If we hurry, my dear, we can gather the aunts and that housekeeper you seem to hold in such high regard, and catch the afternoon train back to Phoenix—where we belong.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lydia said, knowing she might not have been brave enough to utter those words if Rowdy hadn’t been there, but equally certain that she would fight to the death if Jacob Fitch tried to remove her from that house by force.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Fitch crooned, taking Lydia’s chin between his fingers. Although the gesture probably looked like one of affectionate tolerance to the deputies and possibly even to Rowdy, it was, instead, a subtle show of power—only a shade more pressure, and he would have left bruises. “I haven’t sold your things, or your aunts’. Mother and I have moved in, and all we lack for a happy household is you, darling.”
Lydia finally found the strength to pull free of Mr. Fitch’s grasp, step around him, and approach the nearest deputy, the taller one, standing silently in front of the fireplace.
The man’s long face seemed wooden, and his deep-socketed gray eyes showed no expression at all. Overall, he reminded Lydia of Abraham Lincoln, with his melancholy countenance and homely features.
“I left Phoenix willingly,” Lydia told him clearly. “And I married Gideon Yarbro because I wanted to be his wife.”
The deputy’s thoughtful stare was unnerving. “Mr. Fitch here,” he finally said, his voice a deep and resonant base, “claims he and Mr. Yarbro exchanged blows, and then Mr. Yarbro carried you out of that house, kicking and struggling all the way. We’ve spoken to the justice of the peace and the other witnesses, Miss Fairmont, and they all confirmed Mr. Fitch’s account of the incident.”
“I am no longer ‘Miss Fairmont,’” Lydia said evenly. “Please address me as Mrs. Yarbro, if you don’t mind.”
The deputy’s smile came as a surprise, given his dour manner and plain features. “If you’re afraid to tell us the truth,” he said, quite kindly, but with an undercurrent of iron in his voice, “you needn’t be. Mr. Sullivan and I are duly sworn officers of the law. We will protect you and escort you safely back to Phoenix, I assure you.”
Rowdy gave a little snort at this, earning himself a scalding glance from the tall deputy. Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw that her brother-in-law was undaunted by the look, and silently blessed him for standing by her.
“I’m not afraid to tell you the truth,” Lydia said, holding her head high. “I have just done that. I am married to Gideon Yarbro in the eyes of God and man and I wish to remain so, and if you would please leave and take Mr. Fitch with you, I would be most grateful.”
The deputy took her left hand, briefly, ran a calloused thumb across the knuckles. “You’re not wearing a wedding band, Mrs. Yarbro.”
“We haven’t had an opportunity to purchase one,” Lydia replied.
Mr. Sullivan, the second deputy, rose from his chair and spoke for the first time. He was shorter than his cohort, and stocky, with bristly black eyebrows and jowls. “Mr. Fitch,” he said, swiveling his gaze to Jacob, “it appears the lady would prefer to remain in Stone Creek, with her husband. There is no more we can do here.”
Fitch seethed visibly, nearly shimmered with the heat of anger, and even from a distance of several yards, Lydia felt the impact of his fury as surely as if he’d drawn back his hand and struck her.
“This is outrageous!” he ranted, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. So much for the generous gentleman, swift to forgive. “Can’t you see—can’t either of you see—what’s happening here? Lydia is being held prisoner! And why has no one asked to see the marriage certificate?”
“I’ll thank you to keep your voice down, Mr. Fitch,” Rowdy said, in an ominously quiet tone. “My wife is not well, and I will not have my children frightened.” Then, going to a desk and opening a drawer, he brought out the ornate sheet of paper Gideon, Lydia and the minister had all signed. “As for the legal evidence that a wedding did take place, here it is.”
The Lincoln-like deputy took the certificate, examined it, handed it back. He hadn’t needed to see it, Lydia knew; he believed her assertion that she wanted to stay in Stone Creek, with Gideon.
The front door opened, in the near distance, though Lydia could not see into the entryway from where she stood, and she raised a silent prayer that Gideon hadn’t gotten word that Mr. Fitch and the deputies had arrived. He would either hand her over to Fitch with apologies for spoiling the first wedding, or get himself arrested on the spot for taking his fists to the man.
For all this, Lydia was disappointed, as well as relieved, when Wyatt stepped into the parlor, accompanied by a young man who resembled Sarah, though his hair was light, instead of dark like Sarah’s and Wyatt’s.
This would be Owen, she thought, calmer now that she knew the matter at hand had been settled, at least for the moment. To herself, she observed that Sarah hardly seemed old enough to have a broad-shouldered son, nearly as tall as Wyatt.
“I will not tolerate this, Lydia,” Fitch raged, ignoring the new arrivals. All his attention was focused on her, and it burned like sunlight narrowed to a pinpoint through a powerful magnifying glass. “Do you hear me? I will not be played for a fool like this!”
“Seems a little late to avoid that,” Rowdy drawled. “And I won’t tell you to lower your voice again.”
“I’ll burn that stupid house to the ground!” Fitch answered, ignoring Rowdy, but he rasped the threat, instead of shouting like before. “Those precious paintings, the books and papers and bric-a-brac—all of it!”
The deputies closed in on either side of him, each taking an arm. “Arson is a crime, Mr. Fitch,” the tall one told him quietly. “Get hold of yourself.”
With that, the two men propelled a still-sputtering Jacob out of the parlor, into the foyer, and then through the front door.
Lydia hurried to the window to watch the trio struggle down the front walk to the gate, Jacob Fitch resisting all the way.
“Are you all right, Lydia?” Rowdy asked quietly, standing at her side now, taking a firm but gentle hold on her elbow.
She nodded, swallowed, straightened her spine.
“I’d best get back to Lark,” she said.
But her head swam suddenly, as she turned too quickly from the window, and she might have lost her balance, even fainted, if Rowdy hadn’t been so quick to take a second, and much firmer, hold on her arm.
“I’m taking you home,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m quite all right, really—”
Wyatt spoke then. “Any fool could see you’re not,” he argued. “Owen, go and hitch up Rowdy’s buggy and see your aunt Lydia home to the Porter house.”
Owen nodded, and without a word, left the house to do Wyatt’s bidding. Lydia had learned, during the cleaning party at her place, that Wyatt was actually Owen’s stepfather, though Wyatt had adopted him soon after he and Sarah were married, and Owen had taken the Yarbro name.
“I don’t want to go,” Lydia protested. She had promised to spell Sarah, take over Lark’s care for the day, but that wasn’t the whole reason she resisted the idea. She was terrified that Jacob Fitch would somehow escape the deputies before they’d boarded the train and come in search of her.
The thought of Fitch confronting her at some unexpected moment sent a jolt of fear through her. He might lie in wait for her somewhere, awaiting his chance to catch her alone. And practically anyone on the street could tell him where Gideon Yarbro and his bride had taken up residence, seeing no reason to withhold the information. Suppose he came there while Gideon was working? She and the aunts and Helga would be alone, with no way to defend themselves.
She soon noticed that Rowdy was watching her closely; he’d clearly guessed what she was thinking—or simply allowed common sense to lead him to the same conclusions. “Wyatt, I’d be obliged if you’d see Lydia home yourself, and stay with her until Owen fetches Gideon from the mine to look after his wife.”
The slight emphasis he’d put on the last two words reminded Lydia that Rowdy was still annoyed with Gideon, and it was her fault. She’d told him that Gideon planned to leave Stone Creek, after all.
Again, and sorely, she wished she hadn’t.
“Please,” she said, “this is all unnecessary—”
“I don’t think so,” Rowdy said flatly.
“Neither do I,” Wyatt agreed.
And so it was settled.
Owen set out for the mine.
Wyatt went out to the large barn behind the house to hitch up the horse and buggy.
Barely a quarter of an hour later, Lydia was home, sitting glumly at her own kitchen table, while the aunts polished things and Wyatt sipped coffee and chatted idly with Helga. He seemed relaxed, but Lydia couldn’t help noticing that he’d remained standing, and glanced out the side window every few minutes.
Perhaps half an hour had elapsed in this fashion when the back door slammed open and Gideon burst through the opening, wild-eyed and breathless. His gaze sought Lydia, moving from person to person, and landed on her with an actual impact.
“Holy Christ,” he rasped, sagging against the doorjamb.
“Mr. Yarbro,” one of the aunts scolded, though kindly. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain is hardly becoming.”
Gideon did not respond, did not look away from Lydia’s face, did not move even when Owen appeared behind him, and was blocked from entering the house because his uncle was still standing on the threshold.
“Guess Owen and I will be going now,” Wyatt said, with a grin in his voice.
“And that’s enough polishing for one day,” Helga interjected, directing her words to the aunts. She’d been peeling potatoes for a stew, but now she dried her hands quickly on her apron, then removed it. “Miss Mittie, Miss Millie, get your shawls and parasols. We’re going out for a constitutional.”
The aunts seldom left home, let alone took constitutionals, but they fetched the specified items from their room and promptly vanished just the same, as did Wyatt and Owen.
Gideon, who had been forced to leave the doorway so they could all get out, closed the door with slightly more force than Lydia deemed necessary.
“Are you all right?” he asked, after a very long and very uncomfortable silence.
“Yes,” Lydia said, without moving from her chair. “And you may rest easy, Mr. Yarbro. You will not be arrested for kidnapping me.” She straightened a little. “Even though it would have been just what you deserved.”
That familiar, maddening grin crooked up one side of his mouth. He hauled back a chair, turned it and Lydia’s chair, as well, with her still in it, so they were face-to-face, with their knees touching.
“You started this,” he reminded her easily, even lightly. “You sent the letter.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.” Wisely, Gideon did not touch Lydia, except where their knees met, because if he had, she would surely have slapped his face with enough force to turn his head. “I wrote that letter at this table,” he said, thumping the surface once with the knuckles of his right hand. “Do you remember?”
Lydia closed her eyes, all of it coming back to her. She’d been small and sick and afraid, grieving for her dead father. Granted, John Fairmont had not been much of a father, but he’d been all she had, until Lark, until Nell.
Until Gideon.
“Of course I remember.”
“I kept my word,” Gideon went on. “I will always keep my word, Lydia.”
By sheer force of will, Lydia did not give way to the tears scalding the backs of her eyes. Refraining from slapping him with all the strength she had proved still more difficult than before. “You promised to love, honor and cherish me, till death do us part,” she reminded him. “But you don’t love me. And—and you’re leaving. Do you plan to ‘honor and cherish’ from a distance?”
“I won’t be going away for a while,” Gideon said, almost tenderly.
“Do you think that makes this easier to bear?” Lydia retorted hotly. “Any of it?”
“You could have left with Fitch and the deputies,” he said reasonably. “Since we haven’t consummated the marriage, an annulment would be easy to get.”
“It would be simpler for you if I had gone back to Phoenix, wouldn’t it, Gideon?” Lydia challenged, flushed and trembling a little. “You could have gone right on with your life as if nothing had happened, without troubling yourself over me, or the aunts or Helga.”
“No, Lydia,” Gideon answered patiently, “it wouldn’t have been simpler for me. Fitch will hurt you, if he gets the chance, and I can’t let that happen.”
“How do you intend to prevent it?” Lydia asked, sounding far more reasonable than she felt. “When you’re off to—wherever it is you mean to go when you leave here?”
“My brothers will keep you safe if the need arises, Lydia. Owen, too.” He paused, chuckled, though without amusement. “All three of them will want to peel my hide off in strips, it’s true. But you’re a Yarbro and a woman into the bargain, and that matters to them.”
“Does it matter to you, Gideon?”
He flinched slightly at the question. “Believe it or not, yes.”
“Well, I don’t believe it.”
Gideon shrugged one shoulder. He was dirty from working in the mine, Lydia finally noticed, and his beard was coming in. “That’s your prerogative, I guess,” he said, with such exasperating equanimity that Lydia couldn’t bear it.
She did strike him then, hard, with the flat of her palm.
She was instantly horrified at what she’d done, and yet not one bit sorry.
Gideon didn’t move. He just sat there, with the mark of her hand flaring red on his cheek, and said nothing at all.
She pushed back her chair so rapidly, so suddenly, that it toppled over with a loud crash. As she stood and turned to flee, though, Gideon caught hold of her arm and pulled her onto his lap. Encircled her with steel-strong arms when she struggled to get free again.
Anger would have been far easier to endure than the way he held her, but even after she’d struck him, Gideon hadn’t lost his temper. He propped his chin on the top of her head and murmured to her as though she’d been the one slapped.
She began to cry then.
“Shh,” Gideon said, and pressed her head to his shoulder as gently as if she were again the child he’d brought safely through a snowstorm, on the back of a horse, ten years before. “Shh.”
* * *
IT WAS LATE WHEN THE KNOCK sounded at the back door.
Gideon had been half expecting a visitor all evening—that was why he’d waited up. Lydia, the aunts and Helga had long since retired, vanishing to their various quarters as soon as the supper dishes had been washed and put away.
The meal would have been unbearable, he supposed, if the aunts hadn’t regaled him with the promised stories about Mrs. Robert E. Lee, whom they’d been personally acquainted with, and the Washingtons, known through family lore.
Looking out the window before he unlatched the door, Gideon was surprised to see a boy standing on the porch. He’d expected Rowdy, come to lecture him on the duties of a husband, or maybe Wilson, bent on firing him from the mine crew for leaving in the middle of the morning and never going back.
He opened the door.
The boy, no older than ten or eleven, barefoot and wearing short pants, his face in shadow because of the brim of his ragged hat, shoved a slip of paper into Gideon’s hand. “A feller paid me to bring this,” he said. And as quickly as that, he was gone.
Gideon saw no use in pursuing the messenger to ask who the “feller” was—it was stone-dark out, with the moon gone behind the clouds, and the kid would have outrun him easily. He’d had the furtive look of somebody who ran from a lot of things.
So Gideon stepped back, shut the door, and opened the folded sheet of paper. The handwriting wasn’t familiar, but the cryptic message included the code phrase he’d been told to watch for when he accepted the assignment.
Sorry to hear of your sister’s passing.
Services at noon on Sunday.
Gideon crumpled the note into a wad, found a match and struck it on the sole of his boot, and lit the thing on fire. Watched as it fell into the sink in a blazing ball, and was consumed.
He’d been expecting a summons like this one, of course, but not so soon.
Either his employers were expecting miracles, or there had been a change in plans.
Taking the train to Flagstaff would attract attention. He’d have to borrow a horse from Rowdy or Wyatt—hiring one at the livery stable would arouse comment, too, though not so much as buying one—and either or both of his brothers would have questions when he made the request.
He wouldn’t have to lie, though—that was the only comfort. He would be visiting Rose’s grave, a place he’d haunted like a ghost until he’d come to Stone Creek to stay with Rowdy, the year he turned sixteen. Even while he was away at college in Philadelphia, and then working, he’d sent money to Rose’s mother, Ruby, on a regular basis, with the tacit understanding that she’d buy some trinket and snug it next to Rose’s headstone.
Under normal circumstances, Rowdy, already suspicious, might have insisted on coming along, but with Lark recovering from a birth that had nearly put her in a grave of her own, that wouldn’t be a concern.
Wyatt would be honor-bound to stay in Stone Creek and make sure Lydia was in no danger from Fitch. As for Owen, well, he had a pretty young wife of his own to look after, plus his younger brothers and sisters and a ranch to run on top of that, with Wyatt and Sarah spending so much time in town. No, Owen would have neither the time nor the inclination to bird-dog Gideon to Flagstaff.
If there was a blessing to be found in Lark’s recent ordeal, besides the baby, of course, it was that the wedding reception she’d planned to throw for him and Lydia, scheduled for Sunday afternoon, had surely gone by the wayside.
Explaining to Lydia shouldn’t be difficult—she probably wouldn’t be speaking to him anyhow. Helga and the aunts were another matter, but he’d get by them, too—somehow.
Thrusting a hand through his hair, Gideon tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling.
Was Lydia sleeping, or lying awake?
If he dared to set foot in that bedroom, would he be welcome, or would she greet him with a shotgun?
He smiled at the thought of Lydia armed and dangerous.
Oh, she was dangerous, all right. And shooting him might be a mercy, compared to what she was putting him through now.
He turned down the one gaslight he’d kept burning after the women went to bed, made his way to the back stairs, sat down on the bottom step to pull off his boots, and then climbed.
Again, he hesitated outside Lydia’s door.
There was a rim of light beneath it—she was awake then, probably reading.
The temptation to go in there and do what came naturally was as formidable as any Gideon had ever experienced, but the grim truth was, he’d let things go too far already. Technically, Lydia was still a virgin, and she could seek an annulment with a clear conscience, but she wasn’t the innocent young woman he’d carried out of that mansion in Phoenix, either.
He’d robbed her of that. Shown her things that should have waited until a real husband came along, some fine day in the future. A man who could love Lydia the way she deserved to be loved.
Standing in front of the door to that room, Gideon braced his hands on the frame and lowered his head. Thinking of her sharing a bed with another man, giving birth to someone else’s children, had struck him like a fist to the midsection. He needed to catch his breath.
When that door suddenly swung open, and Lydia was standing there in that nightgown he’d pushed up to her neck, with her hair neatly plaited and a book tucked under one arm, he couldn’t think of a single reason for being where he was.
She simply stared up at him for a long time, her brow slightly furrowed. Then, sure enough, she found her tongue. “Why are you skulking outside my bedroom door, Gideon Yarbro?” she demanded, without the faintest trace of charity in her voice or her bristly countenance.
“Just making sure you’re all right,” Gideon said, priding himself on his quick thinking.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Lydia replied pointedly.
The braid made her look like a schoolmarm, and Gideon wanted to undo it, but that would get him whacked again for sure, and his face was still smarting a little from the last time Lydia had let him have it.
“Well,” he said, awkward now, “good night.”
“Good night,” Lydia answered tersely.
Right after that, she shut the door in his face.
He supposed it was better than another slap, but not by much.
By God, not by much.
With a sigh, he thrust himself away from the door casing, turned, and went on to his own room.
* * *
HE WAS LATE FOR WORK the next morning because he wasn’t about to leave Lydia, the aunts and Helga home alone until he had it on good authority that Jacob Fitch hadn’t gotten away from those deputies somehow, that he was back in Phoenix. Which meant he had to herd all the females over to Rowdy’s place, with the lot of them fussing, because Lydia was the only one who actually wanted to go.
Helga and the matched set of old ladies gave him guff the whole way. The aunts wanted to stay home and polish things—they’d hit the mother lode of tarnished silver, to hear them tell it, snooping through an old trunk they’d found in one of the closets, and Helga kept insisting that they’d be fine at home, since she’d take the stove poker to anybody who was up to no good, including Fitch.
Lydia, for her part, walked well ahead of the group and pretended she hadn’t made their acquaintance—especially Gideon’s.
“You two are the dangedest pair of newlyweds I’ve ever seen,” Helga commented, noting the ample distance between Gideon and Lydia, as they walked. “What has gotten into her, anyhow?”
“How should I know?” Gideon grumbled. “I’m only her husband.”
“Then why don’t you act like one?” Helga immediately retorted.
“What is that supposed to mean?” He instantly regretted the question, which had been uttered out of frustration and not as an inquiry, because there was a very real danger that Helga would haul off and answer.
The housekeeper moved a little closer to him, while the aunts did their best to catch up with Lydia. They must have made quite a spectacle, Gideon thought ruefully, straggling through the streets of Stone Creek like four hens and a rooster.
“I do the tidying up, remember,” Helga informed him, in a scalding whisper, “and there were two beds to make upstairs this morning, instead of one, like there ought to be. And it was the same yesterday, too.”
Gideon set his jaw. Damned if he’d explain something that personal to Helga or anybody else. Hell, he couldn’t even explain it to himself.
Rowdy’s place was in sight now, at the end of the tree-lined lane. Gideon stopped and folded his arms, prepared to wait until he’d seen all four women go inside. When he had, he’d head for the mine on the double.
Wilson, the foreman, was bound to be in a foul mood after the humiliation he’d suffered at Mike O’Hanlon’s hands the morning before, and he’d be looking for somebody to take it out on. As it was, Gideon had walked off the job yesterday, when Owen came to tell him Fitch and the U.S. Marshal’s deputies had been at Rowdy’s place questioning Lydia, and now he’d be showing up when everybody else was already down in the hole.
His assignment in Stone Creek would quickly become irrelevant if he got fired from the mining crew before he’d found out if there was a strike in the works or not, and taken the necessary steps to avert it.
Helga glared at him in parting—that was more attention than Lydia had spared him—and trundled along that lane like an overloaded hay wagon on a downhill slope, turning once to call back to Gideon, “Stubborn! That’s what you are, Mr. Yarbro—stubborn!”
He kept his arms folded, tapped one foot.
He’d been called worse things than stubborn in his time.
After what seemed like the passing of a season, instead of just a few minutes, the females were all inside Rowdy’s house.
Gideon didn’t exactly run to the mine, but his strides were long.
“’Tis lucky you are, young Yarbro,” Mike informed him, when he set aside his lunch pail and grabbed a shovel. “Wilson’s ailin’ today—somethin’ about his nose—and kept to his bunk this mornin’. If he was around, you’d be headin’ right back down the road, with what little pay you have comin’ and all the free time a man could want.”
Gideon began shoveling ore into a waiting cart. “You know, O’Hanlon,” he said, “I don’t feel all that lucky.”
Mike gave a snort at that. “Wife trouble,” he diagnosed. “I’d know that look anywhere.”
“What look?” Gideon snapped.
“Peckish,” Mike said, leaning on the handle of his own shovel. “Tight around the mouth, and hollow-eyed, too. The little woman has turned you out of the marriage bed, hasn’t she?”
Gideon heaved a double-load of ore into the cart. “O’Hanlon?”
“Aye?”
“Shut up.”
Mike laughed at that, a great, booming shout of a laugh, loud enough to bring the support beams down on all their heads. When he’d regained his composure, he proceeded to dispense advice. “What you do, young Yarbro, is you show the little lady who’s boss, and lose no time doing it, or she’ll henpeck you till you bleed.”
Gideon rolled his eyes, but kept working.
“It worked with my Mary,” Mike said, joining Gideon at the ore pile and keeping up with him easily. “You go straight to Paddy’s after the shift ends today, and you don’t turn up at home until you’re sure she’s good and sorry for treatin’ you poorly.”
“Sorry,” Gideon said, tight-jawed and shoveling faster. “I don’t happen to have another twenty-dollar gold piece in my boot, Mike.”
“Well, we’re not goin’ to Paddy’s to drink, are we?” Mike countered, swelling with pretended indignation.
“Why else would you go there?” Gideon retorted, sweating. He was starting to get used to the hard physical labor, but he still ached all over.
Mike paused in his work, stepped closer, and lowered his voice. “Because there’s a meeting,” he said. “In the back room.”
Gideon stopped, rammed the head of his shovel into the pile of raw copper. “What kind of meeting?” he asked, with suitable impatience. In truth, his heart was beating a little faster, and not because he’d been chucking ore into a mine cart at twice his usual pace.
This might be the chance he’d been waiting for.
“If you want to know,” Mike said, every trace of his formerly jovial manner gone, “you’ll just have to join the rest of us at Paddy’s after the whistle blows, now won’t you?”