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The rock clattered against the side of the chasm as it fell, the sound echoing eerily in the hush of the dead-end drift. Stretched out on his stomach at the edge of the precipice, Branch held the lantern out as far as he could and peered down into the cold black depths. Gradually, the racket died away, leaving behind a silence as profound as a grave.
The lantern-light couldn't even come close to penetrating the darkness of the deep hole. He had no way of knowing if Jenna was down there. And if she was, he could do nothing for her now. She could not have survived the fall. The rocky pit would become her eternal tomb.
Branch shook off his morbid thoughts. He would not accept the idea of Jenna being dead until he saw her lifeless body for himself. Even if it meant lowering himself by rope to the very bottom of the abyss.
"I do not like it here, my friend." Miguel stood a healthy distance from the awful edge of the ragged hole, hands on his knees as he bent forward to see over Branch's shoulder. His voice was soft and anxious. "Do you see anything?"
"No." Branch got awkwardly to his feet, rubbing his sore leg. "She's not down there."
"You cannot know this for sure, amigo. We've found no other sign of her. Where else could she—?"
"Dammit, Miguel, I said she's not down there."
The Spaniard stepped back, hands up. "Then where do we find your novia, eh? Tell me that."
His sweetheart, Miguel had called her. Was she still his sweetheart? Branch stared off into the darkness of the drift. They had searched through the night and into the following morning. What should have been obvious struck him as a new idea. "The Murphey Mine," he muttered. "She must be there."
"The Murphey. . . Ah, si, the abandoned one that you connected into when you tried to move the drift westward. This is possible, I suppose."
"She must be there. Come on, let's go."
Fifteen minutes later, as they made their way through the main tunnel of Drift No. 2, they saw a light coming toward them. Branch came to a dead stop and lifted the lantern high. Whoever held the lamp had to be coming from the entrance which wasn't far ahead. Probably Sell Trenoweth, returning from taking Rembrandt, Tuttle, and Hendricks down to Park City. Still. . .
"Jenna?" His shout held hope and fear.
According to what he had learned from her father, almost twenty-four hours had passed since she had left them at the vug and started through the mine alone to get help. No one had seen her. A thousand times he had cursed himself for waiting so long to rush the cabin, only to find it empty.
The drizzle started shortly after dark, which meant no tracks to lead them to where Hendricks had taken his hostages. Naturally, the rescue party started searching the mine immediately, but caution made it a slow process. Half the night had been wasted before they determined that Drift No. 1 was empty. More hours fled before they found the three injured men at the vug.
Jenna could have found her way out of the Murphey and back to the Silver Bullion. But no sooner had Branch formed the thought than his hopes were dashed by the husky male voice that answered his inquiry.
"It's me. Sell. Have you found her? I brought some of your men to help out."
Branch's shoulders drooped wearily as he lowered the lantern. Five men followed the Cornishman dressed in the typical work clothes they called "diggers." They also wore protective "hard-boiled" hats made of yellow oil cloth with a hard undercoating, a prerequisite for working in the Silver Bullion Mine, which Branch had forgotten in his panic to find Jenna. Each man held a lighted candle or lantern with extra tapers tucked into their pockets.
"You may put your mind to rest about Rembrandt, my handsome," Sell said, when he reached Branch. "'Ee argued just like a woman about going to the hospital in Salt Lake City, but 'ee's gone. I threatened to gag him. Maura padded the wagon bed so 'ee won't suffer unduly."
"What about Hendricks and Tuttle?"
"Them, too." Sell's long angular face broke into a grin. "My wife proved a bit neglectful, though, when it came to the marshal's comfort."
"Remind me to kiss her later," Branch said wryly. Timothy McNabb, lead man at the Silver Bullion, stepped forward. He was a short, knock-kneed man with several missing spaces in his teeth. "What do you want us to do, boss?"
"Split up. I want every drift and every crosscut rechecked. I'm going over to the Murphey. She could be somewhere between here and there, or lost in those old abandoned drifts."
He saw the worried glance that passed between the men and felt his guts clench. "What’s the matter?"
"It's storming something fierce out," McNabb said.
Branch’s heart jerked. "Hard rain?"
"A real drencher. Been at it now, oh, an hour or more. You know how leaky the Murphey is. I still remember when them two miners got drowned. . ."
The man's voice faded as Branch's own memories took him back more than a year to the day when an ordinary rainstorm, combined with heavy spring runoff, caused a flashflood in the main Murphey drift. Two men died. They hadn't had a chance. The owner shut the mine down the next day and hadn't been worked it since. If Jenna were in there, she was in more danger than he could bear thinking about.
Twenty minutes before noon, Branch, Miguel, and Sell Trenoweth left the Silver Bullion and headed for the Murphey mine's entrance. Dark clouds glowered on the mountain, making it dark as night except when lightning momentarily lit up the sky. Thunder crackled overhead, fading away into a discontented rumble.
In case she might have been hurt and stumbled off the overgrown road that led to the Murphey property, the men had spread out and tramped through rain-soaked weeds and underbrush on the way over. By the time they reached the entrance to the old mine, they were drenched and still had seen no sign of Jenna.
"You two go back and help the others." Branch peered into the dark drift. Behind the broken boards that made up the door dangling crookedly from rusty hinges, cobwebs hung thick and tattered. His nostrils filled with the musty odor of dust, dampness, and despair.
"Don't 'ee go an' be foolish now, Branch," Sell objected. "Thee cannot go in there alone. Look at the water pouring out. 'Tis nearly
ankle-deep already. 'Twill turn into a flood any second."
Miguel put a restraining hand on Branch's arm. "He is right, my friend. My heart aches to think she might be in there, but you will only get yourself killed if you attempt this. You are exhausted, and it is too late to help her now."
Branch whirled on them both. "What in blue blazes do you suggest I do then? Go back to town and dry off in front of a cozy fire with a snifter of brandy? Just forget about Jenna? Leave her to face. . ."
He lifted a hand and let it fall. He found the alternative to finding Jenna safe and alive too painful to deal with. Facing his own death would be easier. Shaking off Miguel's hand, he yanked on the dilapidated door. It clattered to the ground at his feet, releasing the water it had partially held back, so that it poured over them all. Branch's bad leg nearly gave out beneath him as he tried to keep his feet in the flood.
With one hand, he ripped at the cobwebs, holding the lantern high with the other. "Go help the others. I want someone posted in the westward drift where it connects into the Murphey. Tell them to keep a sharp eye out. I'm going inside."
Miguel shrugged philosophically at Sell Trenoweth's silent question and followed Branch into the forbidding tunnel. With a mumbled curse, Sell joined them.
They got no farther than fifty yards before Branch halted and held up his hand for silence. Above the trickling murmur of the steady stream soaking their feet, he heard a sound that set the hairs on his nape on end.
"My hell." Branch shuddered and assured himself he had imagined the shrill, almost feline wail. He plastered himself to the rough granite wall, lantern held high, a grim, pale glow of light in the Stygian darkness of the defunct mine.
"Branch." Sell tugged on his brother-in-law's arm. "Don't kill yourself over this. There's a flood working itself up, sure as morning follows night. Accept it, lad. She's probably dead. Do 'ee hear me, Branch?"
Branch cursed. He shoved the lantern at Sell. "Take this and get the hell out of here like I told you. Both of you."
Sell took the lantern, but he didn't move. "What about thee? No telling how much time you have. Unless you stay close to the entrance, you've no hope of escape."
Branch pulled a candle from his pocket and fumbled for a match. "I'll be right behind you. Go on."
"Amigo, this is not wise—" Miguel began.
"I told you to get out. Now!"
Sell knew Branch lied about joining them, but he also knew of no way to keep the man from whatever he meant to do. Sell turned and motioned for Miguel to come along. Sell had Maura and the children to think of. And Miguel had Dove.
THE HUNGER, THE COLD, the darkness, and the constant fear—all had taken their toll on Jenna. Her pulse seemed stuck on high gallop. Her left eye twitched repeatedly—a sign of nerves stretched beyond limit.
Thirst. Ridiculous to thirst with so much moisture everywhere. Not enough to cup in her hands though. She licked it from the rock walls. Bitter, mossy, metallic-tasting. It did nothing to satisfy her thirst.
For her, the fear—the constant, unmerciful terror—affected her the most.
Rats, mice, dwarfs, ghosts in ore carts woven of spiderwebs. Taunting her. Pursuing her. Nibbling away her sanity.
Walk. Just keep walking.
But which way?
Just walk.
Her feet inside her wool socks and soaked boots ached. Rubbed raw, she thought. Didn't matter. Everything else ached, too.
A new sound reached her. She listened hard. Once, she thought she heard Branch calling her. Tommy Knockers, no doubt. But this seemed different. No tapping, no single drilling, no voices.
Water.
The mere thought caused her to swallow convulsively. She moved toward the sound. Hadn't someone said something about a waterfall? Or was it only a creek that leaked inside?
Soon, beautiful, gushing water swirled around her feet. She reached down, put her hand in it. Cold, wet. Her fingers tasted sweet. She dropped to one knee and scooped the water into her mouth. Scooped and scooped.
Cold, sweet water. Had anything ever tasted so good?
Jenna staggered and caught herself against the wall as she attempted to stand. Her head spun. When the world steadied, she moved on, seeking the source of the water.
The sound became a roar. She heard water splashing as she moved closer. If water could get in, then perhaps, she could get out. And if not, well, at least she had no need to worry about rats here. The water would keep them away.
Something touched her face, something as light as a lover's kiss. She put her hands to her cheeks and felt the moisture. Her fingers found grit the mist couldn't wash away. She took another step, then another. Water pounded her feet, her calves. She reached out, only to have her hands smacked away by the force of the waterfall. She longed to stand under it, to strip off her torn, dirty clothes and wash away the grime, and the soreness, and the fear.
How she longed to see the waterfall. She lifted her face toward the source and perceived moving shades of grayness among the black. There must be a hole up there, one she could not see. It must still be night outside.
Somehow, the movement of the water, the fresh scent, the liquid gurgle, made her feel less alone. She had a strong feeling some other live being occupied the dark, musty catacombs besides herself. Something besides rats and nasty dwarfs.
Her spirits climbed. No question now as to where she was—the old Murphey mine. She would follow the water's flow, and she would get out.
Above the muted roar of the small waterfall came another sound, sharp and loud like the crack of thunder on a stormy night, followed by rolling reverberations. Angry. Ominous. Her mouth quirked at the thought: Rainstorms deep inside the bowels of the earth. Obviously, her grip on sanity remained tenuous.
She did an about-face and splashed her way down the drift. The voice of the falls followed, like a jealous lover. She attempted to laugh—at herself, at her fears. Hysteria tainted the sound.
The water swirling about her ankles rose higher. She kept walking. Her heart caught the urgency of the torrent and thudded tumultuously inside her breast. She trembled in the wet chill of the clammy garments plastered to her body. Her hair had come loose and tumbled about her shoulders in a wild array. She pushed a wet strand out of her eyes and thought of Maura's Irish stew. Her stomach growled.
As the stream swirled and raged about her knees, threatening to suck her into its depths, terror seized her. Two men had died in this mine, Rembrandt had told her. A storm had caused a flashflood, and drowned the men.
Rainstorms underground no longer seemed laughable.
She bolted blindly forward, groping at the walls with her hands to keep from falling, letting the current of the water guide her. Perspiration dripped into her eyes, despite the freezing temperature.
She lived now in a world without sight, without color, a world where perception came only through the senses, magnified by terror and desperation. A world of the coarse, granular hardness of granite walls, and spongy moss on splintered wood. Wetness. The smell of water, sweat, and fear. The ragged gasp of her own breath. And the roar—always the deafening roar—of the raging torrent that seemed bent on expelling her from this underground sepulcher of hell.
As the water rose to her hips, she had to move slower and more carefully. She took the Starr from its holster and tucked it into her waistband to keep it dry. Her feet stumbled. She caught herself, stumbled again. The roar had become so much a part of her that she barely noticed the difference when the volume suddenly increased.
Intuition warned her of impending doom. She could see no danger approaching, but she had an excellent imagination. Rising water and an indefinable change in the sound created visions in her mind that closed off her throat and sent her heart tumbling like boulders down an unstable incline.
A new sound came to her ears—her own choked whimper.
Tension mounted, keeping pace with the water's depth and the thunderous din. A scream ripped upward from her diaphragm to lodge in her throat as she plowed clumsily forward, waiting with increasing dread for a disaster she could not see, only sense.
A sudden deluge poured over her, whipping her hair into her face, stealing her breath, snatching her feet out from under her. Her arms flailed as she sought to regain her balance. Water rushed into her open mouth. The current drove her against the solid rock walls, again and again.
She tried to swim. Impossible in so strong a current. She found the floor with her feet and kicked off, paddling with her hands, praying to break through to the surface—and air. Her lungs screamed for air.
Her strength had been too greatly sapped already. She couldn't make it. She was going to drown.
Please, God, one tiny breath of air.
When the pain in her lungs grew too great and hope floundered, when all the world receded, her lips parted, her mouth opened, her raised hands rammed into something hard, and her head burst from the water.
She sucked in one gulp of moist air before the water reclaimed her. It tossed her back up, slammed her against the walls. Her lungs filled with liquid. Her knee scraped a rough granite surface. She pushed upward, pawed for the surface, found it, and gasped for air, only to be dragged under again.
Held beneath the watery shroud, she felt the cold, wet kiss of Charon himself and knew she'd been added to his boatload of shades being conveyed along the rivers of the lower regions.
Her body grew heavy, drifting with the surging current.
Arms of steel caught her and clung, cradling her snugly to something hard and warm that felt strangely human. A sense of safety claimed her.
Deception—only Charon could embrace her here with his bitter cold clasp of death.
She gave into it, let her body go limp. Her mind emptied. Her last conscious thought centered on Branch and the truth she had tried so hard to deny—a truth he would never know now.
She loved him.
JENNA HACKED AND WHEEZED. Her lungs burned. Her stomach convulsed, and she vomited water. Something pressed on her body, something heavy, squeezing the life out of her.
Hands. Pushing her into soft mud, hauling her up, shoving her back down. Water gushed from her mouth and nose. She gasped, and her lungs filled with air. Moaning, she pushed weakly at the annoying hands. She needed sleep. Sleep and oblivion.
"Breathe, Jenna. Please, breathe for me."
A surge of warmth ran through her. Comfort. But on the outside, her flesh felt frozen.
"Come on, darlin'. We have to get the water out of your lungs."
The hands pressed on her back again. Why didn't they leave her alone?
So tired. Let me sleep.
The hands persisted. She vomited again.
"Good girl."
A new, more intense warmth enveloped her, cradling her body. Moving, carrying her. The water? No, this felt good, safe.
Something creaked, slammed. Footsteps thudded on wood. Softness cushioned her body. The warmth vanished.
No, come back. I’m cold.
Fingers caressed her face.
"Open your eyes for me, Jenna. Please, I don't care if you stay a Pinkerton forever if you'll just open your eyes."
Her eyelids weighed fifty pounds each. She hadn't the strength to open them, much she wanted to. For the voice. For him.
She tried harder. At last, she managed to lift the heavy lids enough to see an indistinct shape. A face that gradually grew familiar. Beautiful. She opened her eyes wider. His face wavered in front of her like the mist from the falls.
"Branch?" Her voice came out like a frog with a cold.
"Hello, darlin'." His voice broke. "How do you feel?"
"Bad. Hurt all over." Hold me. Warm me. Forgive me.
"I know. Your body is black and blue from being thrown against the walls of the drift by the water. But you're going to be all right. Nothing's broken."
"Cold, so cold." Love me.
"Hang on, I'll get you warm." He rose from the bed. Her gaze followed his blurry figure as he limped across the room to the big, black, cast iron stove. The firebox creaked open. Flames leaped inside. He shoved in more wood. Jenna’s eyes drifted shut, too heavy to keep open.
Sleep. All I want, sleep.
Her teeth chattered, keeping her awake.
Branch returned. With speed and gentleness, he stripped the tattered, soggy garments off her body and piled blankets on top of her. He rubbed her feet, her calves, her arms, and hands, carefully tucking each back under the covers as he finished. When that failed to halt the shivering of her body, he removed his own clothes, slipped in beside her and pulled her into his arms, protecting her body with his, giving her his warmth.
Jenna pushed at him ineffectually. "Too tired, Branch."
He chuckled huskily. "Just warming you up the quickest way I know how. Relax. Sleep if you can."
She had no problem with that. The heat and comfort of his body affected her like a balm. The nightmare had ended. Safety wrapped her in his arms. The shivering stopped, and she slept.
For over a week she drifted in and out of consciousness, fighting fits of shuddering chills alternated with fever.
Branch never left her except to attend to his own personal needs at the privy that sat off from the cabin. The old sourdough who cooked for the miners working the Silver Bullion brought them meals. One of the men kept the rain barrel outside the door filled with good water and the wood box stocked with kindling. Another took over Satan's care.
Every morning Miguel rode up to inquire for news and bring clean linens and other supplies. When he went back to town, he took the dirty clothes and sheets with him for Maura and Dove to launder. Sometimes he brought fresh broth and onion plasters from Maura, Indian herbal remedies from Dove.
Twice Maura came with the wagon, demanding that they take Jenna to the hotel. Branch refused. The weather remained stormy, and he feared to take her outside. To be jostled around inside a wagon could do her no good. Both Maura and Dove offered to come up to the mine and help. Branch insisted on caring for her himself. He tenderly bathed her with alcohol to bring down her fever. He patiently cleaned up the broth and medicine that dribbled out of her mouth when he fed her. He helped her use the chamber pot when she could, changed the fouled sheets when she couldn't make it to the thundermug. He had nearly lost her. The thought of letting her out of his sight for even a moment terrified him.
In her delirium, Jenna babbled about rats and Tommy Knockers and constant darkness. She cursed Hendricks and cried out warnings to Branch. She repeated over and over, "Jenna Leigh-Whittington, born Blackhawk, Colorado, third April 1857. Stay sane, have to stay sane."
She cried out for her mother in a childish voice. At other times, she seemed to be trying to comfort her mother. "I'm fine, Mama, fine. Don't worry. I'll find Papa, and make him pay. Don't fret."
Mostly she called for Branch. "Sorry, Branch. I’m so sorry. Don't hate me. Can't bear for you to hate me."
"It's all right," he whispered, holding her close. "I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I love you, Jenna. It doesn't matter if you're a Pinkerton." He kissed away her tears and murmured soft words of love and assurance until she calmed.
He caught catnaps on the other bunk, waking with a start when he realized he had fallen into a deep sleep. At such moments, his gaze would dart instantly to Jenna. If she were quiet, he would focus on the blankets covering her chest and watch for the rise and fall of her breathing, holding his own breath until he could see that she still lived.
For hours he sat beside her bed, elbows on his knees, chin on the interlaced fingers of his hands. He memorized every plane, every dip and rise of her face. The gentle arch of her brows, the dark fan of lashes against her cheek, the way her nostrils dilated with each breath. He prayed to the painting Maura had sent up, of Christ with a crown of thorns, his heart superimposed over his naked chest and glowing with life.
Branch’s beard grew scraggly and unkempt, his hair greasy. He ate little and slept even less. His bad leg ached constantly.
He talked to Jenna, of his love for her and how desperately he needed her. Of the future he hoped they would yet share. And he thought a good deal.
At the close of the second week, while Jenna slept—peacefully for once—he walked out to the corral, more for the fresh air and exercise than to check on the stallion. The violent storm that had washed Jenna down the Murphey drift and into his arms lasted two days. Intermittent showers had kept the ground muddy since then. Branch could still hear the angry mutter of the swollen stream that flowed down the ravine on the Murphey property before curving past the Silver Bullion.
Satan nickered and trotted over to him, but Branch's mind was full of other matters, and he petted the horse indifferently. He thought of the way he'd practically raped Jenna the day he'd learned she was a Pinkerton, and of the rotten things he had said to her. The rough wood of the post at the corner of the corral felt cool to his forehead as he leaned against it. A beetle climbed onto his hand where he gripped the post. He flicked it away and wished he could be rid of his remorse as easily. "Sweet Mother of God, I let myself sink lower than any Pinkerton."
Anger and self-loathing washed through him with the same destructive force as the flashflood that had swept the Murphey mine. He should be asking her forgiveness, not the other way around, and he couldn't blame her if she refused.
The crisis had passed. She would live. He had saved her life but knew he might still lose her.
"Damn my eternal soul." He thumped his head against the post and relished the pain. She deserved a better man than him. He should simply get out of her life. Now. Go before she woke up, and he had to face her. But how would he live without her?
He doubled his fists and struck the post, over and over, as if the thick wood were the punching bag of a pugilist until the pain in his bruised knuckles matched the pain in his heart, and at last, he could let it go.
Exhausted, he went back to the cabin. The door creaked as he swung it inward and stepped inside. He glanced at Jenna and saw that she still slept. Head bowed, he walked to the stove and tossed a chunk of wood into the firebox. He'd been gone longer than he'd realized, and the room had grown cool.
"Branch?"
He spun awkwardly. Jenna watched him with clear, lucid eyes. He limped to the bed and tested her temperature with his palm. Blood ran from his lacerated hand onto her forehead. He wiped it away with his sleeve. "No fever. How do you feel?"
"Like someone beat me with an ax handle."
"You need more rest, but you'll be fine now."
"How long have I been sick?" She wanted to touch him but didn't have the strength to lift her hand.
"Ten days." Two of the longest weeks he had ever known. Branch went to the wash basin to scrub his hands. It was a good excuse to get away from her. If he'd stayed beside her one more moment, he would have kissed her.
He turned to gaze at her while he gingerly blotted his battered knuckles with a towel and pulled out splinters. "It will probably be another couple of weeks before you get much strength back. Now that you're out of danger, I'll go into town and get the wagon, so you can be moved to the hotel."
Her eyes followed him as he moved toward the door. "You mean. . . now?"
"Might as well. I won't be long. Get some rest."
He closed the door behind him. She listened to his footsteps fade. A minute later she heard Satan's welcoming whinny. She stared at the door, feeling heavier and more depressed with each passing second as she listened for the sounds of his departure. He hadn't forgiven her. Why else would he be in such a hurry to put distance between them now that she was better?
Moisture squeezed beneath her lashes as she shut her eyes against the pain. It didn't matter that he didn't love her anymore. Since she didn’t plan to marry him, anyway, it would be best if they never saw each other again.
She'd found her father, and the two of them still things to settle between them, but then she could go home. That was what she wanted, wasn't it?
No answer came, and she was too tired to seek one out. Instead, she let it go and sought the comfort of sleep as he'd suggested.