Empty Promises

Chapters 1-9

by Redwood

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

Chapter 1

The furtive scurrying of a lone rat was the only sound as he slowly blinked open his eyes, struggling to make sense of the dull throbbing behind them and the darkness surrounding him.

He groaned with the slight movement of his head and fought down the instant nausea that hit him in the gut, coinciding closely with the warm rush of disorienting dizziness that washed over him.

Clenching his eyes tightly closed again, he pushed the side of his face further into the hard-packed dirt, hauling in several deep breaths through his nose. The air was damp, moldy, and smelled of old, musty grain, left and long forgotten.

Not willing to risk any more movement, he lay still for long moments, locked in a fierce battle of wills with the unremembered contents of his stomach. Finally, sweat beading across his forehead from the effort, he opened his eyes again and tried to figure out where he was, . . . and he tried to remember why.

The darkness was almost complete, with only vague, stationary shapes indicating that some of the shadows within his limited line of sight were darker than others. But, suddenly, blinking rapidly, frantically trying to clear his vision, he realized that everything before him was not only shrouded in darkness, but was also slightly blurry.

“Dammit!” he cursed softly, closing his eyes again, squeezing them shut.

It was not until he tried unsuccessfully, still groggy and disoriented, to reach up with his right hand and rub it across his eyes, that he realized they were both tied together tightly, behind his back. In fact, as he forced himself to concentrate on something beyond the pounding behind his eyes and his impaired vision, he became slowly aware that he could barely feel his fingers, indicating he had been this way for quite a while.

Flexing them carefully, his eyes still closed, face pressed into the dirt, he succeeded in awakening a sharp, tingling sensation that began to shoot daggers of needle-like ice up and down his arms.

With another groan, he slowly moved his legs, relieved somewhere in the fog that gripped him, to find them unbound.

However, the dimly perceived relief was short lived, as he was again consumed by a renewed cascade of pain behind both eyes, ricocheting backward through his head like a stray bullet bouncing off of an outcropping of dark, grey rock.

Gasping out loud, his eyes flew open, and he panted hard for each breath, before quickly closing them again.

After a few moments, the only sound, the only movement, was again the scurrying of the lone rat among the discarded sacks of grain.

* * * * * * * *

The loud crash of something falling and the sudden clash of metal on metal, followed by an eyebrow-lifting measure of angry curses, greeted the tall, blue-eyed rider as he threw his right leg over his horse and dismounted.

His mouth turning up in a quizzical smile, Jarrod led his white-blazed chestnut toward the open double-door of the barn, and he looked inside warily.

Then, chuckling softly, he entered the darkened structure, still leading his horse, and he pointedly ignored the sight of his aggravated brother sorting out various rakes and shovels lying on the ground by one wall.

Realizing he was taking his life in his own hands by speaking, Jarrod continued untacking his horse and ventured calmly, “Cleaning up the barn, Nick?”

The explosion was immediate.

“No, Jarrod,” Nick shouted sarcastically from where he continued to squat facing the wall, attempting to extract one shovel from the pile, “I am NOT cleaning up the barn. I’m taking care of something that should have already been fixed, and if you and that other blue-eyed rascal of a brother would stay home where you belong once in a while, you’d both be able to see all that needs to be done around here!”

Smiling to himself, Jarrod’s twinkling eyes would have betrayed him if Nick had not had his back to him. He asked, “And, just which one of us are you, Oh Responsible One, picking up after this time?”

Standing abruptly and giving the tangled implements a swift, decisive kick with his boot, Nick emitted a loud growl, stalked toward the tack room, and returned with a hammer and a handful of nails. Noisily, exasperatedly, he proceeded to re-hang the rack that had fallen when he had least expected it.

Giving his horse one last pat, Jarrod stepped out of the stall and joined his brother, silently offering one hand to steady the opposite end of the long rack, while Nick nailed up the other.

“It’s kind of rickety, Nick,” Jarrod ventured. “Are you sure it’s going to hold all of these?”

Then, a withering glance sent in his brother’s direction, Nick wordlessly returned the hammer to the tack room, closed the door, and joined Jarrod outside in the dark. As they crossed toward the side of the house, its soft inside lights shining through the windows and beckoning them closer, Nick growled, “Heath took time to replace every handle this morning, making new holes for those rawhide loops on every one, before he left to go to town. Ciego offered to hang that old rack back up for them, but Heath told him he wanted to repair it first, that he would do it as soon as he got back. . . . But, Old Ciego just tacked it up there in the meantime, and it fell when I removed a shovel.”

Shaking his head, Nick finished, “It looks like Little Brother didn’t get around to repairing it, after all.”

As they reached the side door to Silas’ kitchen, Jarrod paused, hand on the door, and looked back at Nick curiously. His eyebrows lifted, he asked, “Brother Heath left something undone? Well now,” he continued, seeing Nick’s nod, “That does surprise me. If it were anyone but Silas or Heath, I wouldn’t wonder for a second, . . . but, one of those two?”

Silas turned from his dinner preparations at the warm wood stove and caught Jarrod’s wink in his direction. He smiled at the two men, his heart swelling with pride at his many, beloved memories of helping to raise them both.

“Well, I don’t dispute you about Silas, there,” Nick said, acknowledging the older man with a nod, “But that little brother of ours has some explaining to do when he gets home.”

“C’mon now, Nick,” Jarrod laughed lightly, as they removed their coats and headed up the back stairs to the second floor, “I think we can let one instance of failure to complete a task, in what? almost three years? go just this once. Don’t you? . . . Just because that rack fell when you were in the barn, doesn’t mean. . . .”

But, Jarrod trailed off as Nick stopped abruptly in front of him, blocking his path at the top of the stairs. Though his brother kept his back to him, Jarrod saw him glance down, a worried look flickering across his face, before he hurriedly hid it and turned away.

Putting his arm out, his hand grabbing Nick’s sleeve, Jarrod demanded, “What is it, Nick? Where is Heath?”

Nick turned back, looking Jarrod full in the eyes for a few seconds, then pulled his arm away. Stalking on down the hall, he said over his shoulder, “I don’t know, Jarrod. That’s just it. I don’t know.”

Chapter 2

The voice was very deep and rocky, like it had to roll over bits of gravel and sharp stones at the bottom of a dark hole before it slowly worked its way to the surface.

Unable to focus, even briefly, on the person leaning down over him, shaking him, he closed his eyes again and concentrated on the man’s voice. He knew he had heard it before, but no matter how he tried to conjure up a face to match it, he came up blank, with darkness his only answer.

He tried to pull away from the hands that shoved him roughly, forcing him to sit up, pushing him back, none too gently, against the rough wooden wall behind him. Keeping his eyes closed, he bit down on his lip and fought with the disconcerting dizziness that crashed into him, threatening to topple him. He pulled up his knees and leaned forward, dropping his head down to rest across them, his face turned away from the man in front of him, eyes still tightly shut.

Suddenly, the man grabbed him by the collar and threw his head back against the wall behind him, holding his upper body there. Heath fought to blink his eyes open, . . . then, closed them again, unable to see more than a blurry shape moving in front of him, in an unknown place that remained shrouded in darkness.

“I have no wish to kill you, Barkley! Do you understand me?” the man said angrily, repeating his words from a moment ago, while shaking Heath again.

Struggling to take in enough air to keep from blacking out, Heath leaned against the wall, wincing when the back of his heavy head came into contact with the wood, but understanding even through the grogginess, that he could best protect his head by holding it there and keeping it as still as possible.

The man shook his shoulder and demanded fiercely, “Understand?”

Heath worked to make his eyes appear focused on the man’s face, unwilling to let his captor know he could not see him clearly.

Clenching his jaw against the pain behind his eyes, Heath snarled, “Go to Hell!”

Immediately, the man stood up, shoving Heath over sideways. He started to pace back and forth, talking out loud, at first, as if he were the only one listening.

“If he finds out what you know, it’ll never work. . . none of it! All my preparations will be for nothing. . . I can’t let you leave here, Barkley! Not now. . . . Not yet!” As he said this last, he passed within striking distance, and he lashed out with his boot, kicking Heath in the chest viciously. Then, ignoring the grunt of pain he’d caused, his frantic pacing resumed.

Finally, Heath heard him walk away, and there was a pause, as he no longer heard the man’s movement across the hard-packed dirt. When he heard the footsteps returning, he could see the slight movement in the shadows, and feel the brush of cloth across his face, before he closed his eyes again, unable to move. Then, as the man leaned in and lifted Heath’s head from where it lay in the dirt, he slapped the side of Heath’s face with his hand.

“Barkley. Barkley!” he called. “Sit up and drink this.”

Heath blinked open his eyes just a fraction.

He immediately felt the rim of a cup shoved against his mouth and the cool wetness of water against his lips. Drinking several swallows, he closed his eyes as the dizziness swept over him again.

The man pushed him back to the ground. After another short pause, Heath felt the man grab his wrist, pull on the ropes behind him, and he felt the immediate easing of the tightly wrapped hemp.

“You work on getting out of that, and I’ll leave the water here. But, so help me, Barkley, if I come back and you try anything, I promise you that I’ll finish what I started . . . with no regrets.”

Standing and kicking Heath one more time, he said, “You hear me, Barkley?” Then, when the coughing started, he turned and walked away.

Heath lay doubled over, straining to listen over the ragged sounds of his own coughing, as he heard the shrill squeaking of a little used door on its hinges, then the faint sound of a key scraping in a metal lock on the other side.

After a few moments, he struggled to maneuver up from the ground, leaning forward over his knees. The coughing was followed immediately by ragged retching, as the dizziness overwhelmed him.

Then, fighting with the loosened ropes behind him, he freed one hand from the tangled binding the man had apparently cut just before he had left, and he reached out to sink his fingers in the dark dirt beside him. Steadying himself against the ground, he managed to get one boot beneath him, and he struggled to push himself to his feet.

But, despite his efforts, he succeeded only in increasing the pain crashing into him, and gasping again, he fell back against the wall. Then, using his hands to guide him, he eased himself slowly down to the ground, before he slipped sideways and stretched out awkwardly in the dirt, eyes tightly closed against the searing agony behind them.

After a few long moments, he tried again to focus on where he was and why.

But, unable to reconcile this situation with any recent, remembered event, his thoughts began to drift back into the more distant past.

As the darkness seemed to seep back in, pushing him toward unconsciousness, his thoughts slowly drifted back to before, back to when he had first met the family he had grown to love, and his thoughts settled there, like a wind-blown leaf drifting softly down to rest with barely a ripple, on the surface of a quiet pond.

* * * * * * * *

Unbidden, the smile crept across her face as she heard the strong strides of her son approaching, his jingling spurs announcing his arrival, even at this time of night, as surely as his voice always did during the day.

Turning slightly, she caught his eye, as he stepped through the open doorway and out onto the verandah to join her. Catching her up in his muscular arms from behind, he hugged her to his chest and leaned down to rest the side of his handsome face against hers, her soft silver hair touching the dark strands of his.

“Mother?” he asked quietly, “It’s late. Why are you still out here?”

He felt her shake her head against him, as she responded, “I’m worried, Nick. He should’ve either returned home or sent word that he wasn’t coming tonight.”

“He’s a grown man, Mother. And, you know how he gets sometimes, like he just has to be alone to think things through. He probably just decided for some reason that he wanted to stay in town, or needed to stop off some place between here and there. He’ll be here in the morning, all smiling blue eyes, tired from sitting up all night, but happy because he spent the night looking up at those stars he loves so much.”

Victoria leaned back a bit, secure in Nick’s comforting arms, and looked up at the silent stars overhead. She murmured, “They are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Mother,” he replied, smiling as he looked up at them, “They sure are.”

Then, as they stood there together, thinking of Heath, Nick said, “Not too long ago you told us what Heath had said to you, about how sometimes he likes to get off by himself, just to make sure he still appreciates all of this when he comes home.”

Again, though she stiffened slightly at the still sharp memory of the agonizing events that surrounded the particular evening she had shared that with Jarrod and Nick, she smiled, too, at her thoughts of Heath.

Nick felt her slight distress, but pushed on, “I know you’ve probably noticed it, but he’s been even quieter than usual lately. I think all that with Charlie really took a toll on him. I keep finding him staring off into the distance, like he’s, . . . like he’s thinking of the past, maybe things that happened during the war or something, things that haven’t seemed to bother him as much in the last year or two, as they did when he first came here.”

Victoria turned around, reached up, and placed the palm of her hand against the side of Nick’s face. She smiled up at him and asked, “You love him, don’t you, Nicholas?”

His smile widening, he responded immediately, “Yes, Mother. I love that little brother. . . . He’s part of me, the partner and friend that I always wanted to share all of this with. He knows just how to needle me,” Nick laughed, then, immediately closed his eyes, finally giving voice to the growing sadness he had been trying to ignore, “And, it . . . it hurts to know he’s shutting himself off from me, even if only for a little while, even if he doesn’t mean to.”

“Maybe he’s not, Nick. Maybe you were right before,” she said soothingly. “Maybe he just needs some time away to help him put everything back in place.”

Then, swallowing hard, she remembered how she had been optimistic at first that last time, too, the last time he had not come home. And, she asked quietly, not wanting to pry, but feeling like somehow it was important, “Nick, did he ever talk to you about what happened then. . .” she swallowed hard before continuing, “The last time we didn’t know where he was? Does he talk at all about what those people did to him . . . ?”

Realizing immediately what she was referring to, Nick shook his head, “He’s said a few things, mainly about how much it bothered him that the girl was killed, but, he’s kept most of it pretty close, Mother, not saying much about it in the last couple of months. But,” Nick paused, smiling sadly at her as he looked down into her compassionate grey eyes, “I’ve been kind of preoccupied myself lately.”

Patting his face in understanding, she said, “I know, Nick. I know. And, I’m sorry, Son. Your young lady hurt you deeply, didn’t she?”

Nick reached up, wrapped her hand in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Yes, Mother. She did.”

Nodding, Victoria stood up on her tiptoes and kissed her handsome middle son on the cheek. Then, she said, “Good night, Nick. I’ll see both you and Heath in the morning at breakfast, then.”

“Good night, Mother,” he responded.

As the quiet of the house settled over him, Nick leaned down on the railing and looked out into the night.

Upstairs, a few moments later, his mother paused by her window as she blew out her lamp. She stood there, then, lost in thought, looking back out at the star-filled sky.

As both of them, mother and son, thought again of the blond that had joined their family only within the last three years, both suddenly realized that, in the aftermath of the long days he had been missing recently, held by a misguided, vengeful sect and unable to return home to them, he would not allow them to worry now, not again so soon. He would not allow them to worry by not sending word of his whereabouts tonight.

Silently, separately, both remained awake, looking out at the stars and thinking about how Heath had come to them. Both continued keeping their silent, lonely vigils, listening in vain, hoping, . . . needing . . . to hear his light tread coming up the staircase, until the stars were no longer visible in the grey sky of approaching dawn.

* * * * * * * *

With a slight movement of her hand, the young woman moved aside the heavy drape, allowing more of the cool, refreshing air to enter the suddenly, overly-warm bedroom. She leaned her dark head against the window sill and then, lifting her fine linen skirt hem slightly, she raised one knee to the cushioned window seat and eased gracefully down to sit on her lower leg, her hand still holding back the curtain.

Staring out into the unfamiliar surroundings covered in darkness, she thought about the young man she had seen today for the first time in almost three years.

Chapter 3

Almost three years before

The tall, wire fence stretched out from the gate in two directions and into the distance, before one end turned a corner near a stubby stand of pines, and the other began working its way up the side of the scrub-covered hill, climbing at a steady angle until it reached the top and dropped again, out of sight, on the other side.

The gate was guarded by armed men, but the only thing behind it worth protecting, at least of what was visible, were a modest wooden house and an even smaller wooden building with a tiny porch. In fact, the only thing, besides the armed men and the fence worth notice at all, was the large sign over the gate.

He walked by the locked gate, shaking off the pervasive cold that seemed forever a part of him now, glancing at the men who were eyeing him with distrust.

To them, he was just another one of the dirt-poor, down-trodden, and suspiciously violent workers, who broke their backs day after day setting charges, hefting pick axes, and removing rubble, as they struggled to scratch out a living by bringing the ore up out of the dark.

To them, he was just another one of the faceless, pitiable men, too grimy and sweat-covered to distinguish from among the many others that owed the company store more than one salary could ever repay.

To him, however, not much separated his side from theirs, at least not much other than the tall, wire fence and the sign above the gate.

They were all employees of the same company, of the same stock holders, of the same self-serving management.

The only other difference, besides the weapons they held, was that they were being paid for today, and he, like the other men meandering restlessly through the town’s dusty streets and roaming up and down the fence delineated perimeter, was not.

* * * * * * * *

The fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, the warmth of its orange glow permeating the room behind him. He glanced down at it, then up at the picture hanging in the place of honor above the mantel. Tossing his unfinished cigar into the fire, he slammed his hand against the mantel over his head and said heatedly, “Bombings and murder. I don’t understand it. We’ve never had trouble like this at the mine before.”

Speaking from where she and her youngest son were playing chess across the room, Victoria Barkley asked, without looking up, “How deeply involved are we?”

“Enough to get hurt,” Jarrod responded disgustedly, his worry for the family’s interests, the weight of his responsibilities, heavy on his shoulders tonight, “Ten thousand shares.”

Audra, sitting on the red settee, watching him, said quickly, not yet grasping any of the larger, inherent problems, “Well, then, why don’t we sell out?”

Ever indulgent, Jarrod explained, crossing over and stopping behind her, “Because, since the strike, we wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near their market value.”

Without glancing up from the black and white board, the issues themselves seeming as cut-and-dried as the polar opposites of the colors of the squares, Nick said dogmatically, “If the governor had any guts, he’d move the troops in up there. They’re destroying private property.”

Looking over at him, Jarrod gave no reply to his brother’s statements, but said, “Nick, why don’t you ride up there as soon as possible and find out what it’s all about?”

Nodding, Nick agreed, “Tomorrow morning.”

“Alright, then, that settles it. When you get up there, talk to Colin Murdoch. He’s been superintendent of the mine since it opened. He’ll be able to give you a good picture of what’s going on. And, Nick,” Jarrod continued, “Remember, you’ll be representing management, and management seems to be a walking target right now. You watch yourself.”

“Yeah.”

Jarrod paused by the chess players, reached down, and moved one of his mother’s chess pieces.

Victoria batted his hand away, moved the piece back to its original position, then, reconsidering the ramifications of what he had suggested, she glanced up at Jarrod and returned the piece to the square on which he had placed it, based on his strategy.

The tall, dark-headed, oldest Barkley son, leaned down, kissed her on the head, then stood up, grinning slightly.

Sometimes the only way to save the game was to sacrifice one of the players.

* * * * * * * *

Though it was dark when he entered Lonesome Camp, he could immediately feel the difference between this place and the many other boomtowns he had ridden through from time to time, all over the eastern part of the state.

It wasn’t just the ramshackle buildings, their ragged shadows made more ominous by the dim light of the moon passing in and out of the rapidly moving clouds above him.

It wasn’t just the lack of light from the wooden structures, the noticeable absence of light filtering out through cracks, windows, and doorways of homes and businesses.

No, the difference was as ephemeral as the silence, as nebulous as the cold shiver that began at the base of his spine and snaked its way, slithered its way, up his back. It was even in the chill of the wind picking up the trash strewn about and swirling around his horse’s hooves.

Patting the solid horse beneath him in appreciation of the animal’s steadiness, he guided her toward the center of town, and one of the few buildings with any sign of life. He continued on, though he was immediately aware of someone watching him furtively, someone shuffling along the broken boardwalk off to his right, keeping pace with his movements.

As he dismounted and untied his saddlebags, he steeled himself against the reaction of the townspeople at his entrance. Squinting his eyes, he dallied his reins twice around the hitching post, stepped up on the poorly maintained, boarded walkway, and pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon. Overhead was a sign that also portrayed the squalid establishment as a hotel.

The chilled fingers of wariness spread out from the base of his spine as he crossed the threshold, the immediate squalor and hopelessness of the place reaching out from every corner of the large room to envelope him.

Instantly aware that he was already the center of secret attention from every quarter, he slapped his saddlebags down on the filthy bar, drawing all eyes toward him openly. The barkeep, drying a dirty glass with the equally dirty cloth draped over his shoulder, lifted his head a fraction. But, he neither acknowledged Nick with word nor glance.

Unused to being ignored anywhere he went, Nick Barkley narrowed his eyes, and gave voice to the immediate purpose for his presence in the room.

“I want a drink, whatever you’ve got to eat, and a room for the night.”

“I’m closed.”

“You don’t look closed,” Nick said, walking down toward the other end of the bar. He removed his hat, ran his gloved fingers through his hair, and replaced his stetson with studied deliberation.

“I don’t want no trouble, Mister,” the barkeep stated, seeing him coming and struggling to keep his voice steady.

As the rotund man turned to walk away, Nick reached out, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauled him back to face him.

“No trouble, . . . just a room, a drink, and something to eat.”

“Make it two, Newton!”

Nick immediately glanced away from the stout bartender. The new voice belonged to a young girl, her dark hair, pleasing figure, and shining green eyes as instantly noticeable as her rough, but lilting, accent.

“Shut up!” the barkeep yelled at her.

“The gentleman won’t mind buying a lady a drink,” she said, nodding at Nick.

“Beat it!”

Unfazed, she responded, “Aw, let a girl make her rent, will ya’, Newton?”

Nick slid a partially filled glass down to her, then grabbed the bottle from the barkeep before he could walk away with it, and, retrieving his saddlebags from the odd, little man who had followed him in from the street, carried both items over to a table near the wall.

“You wait ‘til Himself hears about this!” the barkeep said to the girl, who ignored him and turned to watch Nick walk across the room.

Then, she picked up her glass, slipped off into a back room and came back with a leg of mutton on a plate. Smirking at Newton, she evaded his grasp and walked across the room to perch beside Nick, who was now sitting in a chair, watching, while sipping on his drink.

Nick eyed her closely for a moment, then nodded his thanks as she pushed the plate toward him. He picked up the fork she had brought him, and, as he took a bite of the roasted meat, he looked around the room again at the inhabitants.

Though everyone was watching the two of them, most were evasive about it once more, their eyes hooded.

However, in one corner, further down along the same wall where he had placed his back, Nick noted that he was being openly watched by an unshaven, blond-headed young man with his chair tilted back on two legs.

Intending to make brief, intimidating eye contact with the blond, Nick felt himself suddenly unable to look away. He saw the world-wise intelligence and felt the simmering tension as the young man narrowed his eyes and continued to stare back at him, meeting Nick’s silent challenge head on.

Then, as he heard the girl’s voice, her Irish lilt not unpleasant to his ears, he reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the blond in the corner of the room and again sought the bright green eyes of the girl.

“What’s your name?” Nick asked, pouring them both a drink.

“Brydie.”

“Brydie what?”

“Brydie Hanrahan.”

Glancing back at the corner, and seeing the pale blue of the young man’s eyes still watching him, Nick turned to her, indicated the blond by gesturing toward him with his head, and said, “I need some information, Brydie.”

“Why? That’s a dirty word around here. What are you, a company spy?”

“No. Is that what they think?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “You’re a stranger.”

Nick nodded and said, “And, this place doesn’t get many people passing through, does it?”

“No. . . . Not now. . . . not now that the mine’s shut down.”

“Not much of a way to make a living,” Nick said, turning his full attention to the girl, who couldn’t be any older than his sister, but whose brash approach to life told of a very different kind of existence.

“No. And, even with the mine open, it . . . ,” she trailed off, glancing, like Nick toward the blond openly watching them.

“Who’s Himself?” Nick asked, again tearing his eyes away from the ice blue in the corner. He inclined his head toward the young man. “Is that him? And, are you afraid of him?”

Her eyes widening suddenly at the bold questions, Brydie stood abruptly, glanced in the direction of the blond watching them, and she began shaking her head, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders.

“No. Not him, never him. . . . But, I’m the sole support of my old father, I am, and I can’t afford to be killed.”

She tried to take a step back, away from the table, but Nick reacted instantly, reaching out and grabbing her by the forearm.

“Brydie?”

“No!” she said, trying to pull away from him.

The reaction from the young man in the corner was instantaneous.

In one fluid motion, he had risen from his chair and was half-way across the room, coming toward them, before Nick had removed his eyes from the girl’s frightened face, or his gloved hand from her arm.

Suddenly, the blond was standing in front of Nick, snarling in his face, “Let her go.”

For a moment, both of them stared at each other, hard hazel eyes locked on blazing blue, those of the girl forgotten.

Though the blond, who was a good two inches shorter and much slighter of build, had not touched him, Nick could feel the power of the quiet demand, backed by the young man’s well-muscled, though somewhat gaunt frame and evidence of a lifetime of hard work. He knew he had unleashed more anger in his direction, by his unthinking actions toward the girl, than he had faced from a single source in a long time.

Nick released his hold on her and, knowing that he had brought more attention to himself than he had wanted, lifted both hands in apology. “I’m sorry, Brydie,” he said steadily. “It wasn’t my intent to hurt you or scare you.”

Having recovered from the fear created by his open questioning, she leaned around the blond and replied saucily, her green eyes glittering, “I hope O’Doule cuts your heart out.”

Then, she turned away, her back to both of them.

Nick watched, incredulously, then, as the young man, though a snarling, dangerous force to be seriously reckoned with only moments before, turned around and lay a calming hand on her shoulder. The blond leaned in close from behind her and murmured a few quiet, calming words in her ear. At this, her bowed head came up, she nodded once, and she moved off, crossing the floor to retrieve her warm wrap from behind the bar.

Then, she headed toward the door, but stopped, as if to wait.

Though Nick had been unable to catch any of the younger man’s words, he immediately recognized the tone. It brought an instant image to mind of a bright, but dusty afternoon years ago. For some reason, he vividly recalled leaning against a white fence and listening to the quiet murmurings of a much older man speaking to a trembling filly that had just been placed under saddle for the first time.

Blinking, Nick shook off the memory and found himself again staring into the narrowed eyes of the blond.

“You’re one’a them, aren’t you? the quiet, confident voice asked.

“One of who, Boy?” Nick asked, his voice gruff and demanding, surprised at the brash openness of the question coming back at him from this unexpected source.

The young man in front of him, dressed in ripped and faded brown work clothes, though obvious attempts had been made to clean and repeatedly repair them, had an unmistakable spirit about him. In fact, it shone through the layers of perpetual dirt and worn tiredness with a glare that almost succeeded in blinding Nick to the young man’s circumstances.

The pale blue eyes searched Nick’s face again for another second. Then, he replied, no longer asking, but certain, “You’re one’a the Stockton Barkleys.”

Nodding in spite of himself, though he was rapidly thinking through the ramifications of being honest in this potentially volatile situation, Nick responded, “Yes. I’m Nick Barkley.”

After a pause, in which he had expected the young man to at least return the favor by responding in kind, Nick asked, reaching out to offer his hand, “And you? Have you got a name, Boy?”

The blond kept his hands down by his sides, clenched into white knuckled fists, and his eyes remained narrowed. The only thing that moved was a slight lift of his left eyebrow.

Seconds passed.

Then, though still not reaching out to shake Nick’s gloved hand, he said quietly, “Name’s Heath.”

Chapter 4

Nick walked restlessly back and forth across the room on the second floor, immediately over the saloon. He had finally succeeded in convincing the barkeep downstairs, as the man relented and snapped up the offered gold coins, biting down on them with a satisfied gleam in his eye, to give him the key

He had also asked the barkeep to get word to “Himself,” whoever he may be, that Nick wanted to talk to him. And now, he was trapped into waiting, forced into practicing patience at the very time he craved action, and he prowled the dirty wooden floor in anticipation of the meeting to come.

Jarrod would not have approved of this strategy, of that much, Nick was sure. His brother had advised him to seek out Murdoch, the superintendent of the mine, first, telling him that the man would be able to explain exactly what was going on here.

That advice, given by his deep thinking brother, was a strategy founded on reasonable logic and on an innate understanding of any power structure based on legal authority. However, this particular situation, Nick believed, had its roots in the more irrational, not always logical, emotions of the men and women involved, and therefore, . . . the solution he sought should take these into account up front.

For Nick knew, once he sought out Murdoch, he might as well draw a line in the dust outside in the street, a line that clearly announced to anyone connected with the mine, with the camp, as to just whose side he was on. And, in doing so, he may never learn the whole story behind the strike.

Maybe Murdoch knew the causes, but, then again, maybe he didn’t.

But, typically decisive, Nick had already made up his mind, as soon as he had seen and felt the fear in the room downstairs over two hours ago. Asking for this meeting was the right course of action, at least for tonight.

Slamming his fist into the palm of his other hand, Nick whirled around and stalked back over to stand by the window. He placed the same hand against the windowsill and leaned on it, pushing back the flimsy curtain with the other, and he looked out into the night.

The streets were quiet. He could see no movement whatsoever and almost as little light, from the surrounding buildings.

His mind turning back to review the fear in that room downstairs, he realized that it had been so thick, so pungent, he could smell it, even over the unpleasantness of the stale sweat and sour beer.

Reaching down, he withdrew his pistol from where it still lay, tightly sheathed against his thigh, and he hefted its weight in his hand for a few seconds, before he replaced it in its leather holster.

Then, looking back out into the night, he caught the reflection of his own face in the dirty glass of the window.

For a fleeting second, he was reminded of the searing, pale blue eyes in the dirty, unshaven face of the young man downstairs. Except for when Nick had begun questioning her too closely, both the young man and the girl were the only ones down there that had not oozed with the fear and despair that had seemed to hold all of the others in this place in chains.

Puzzled, Nick wondered for a moment about the pride he had seen glaring back at him from those blue eyes. What was its source? What kept it alive, in this place that reeked of despair and despondency?

Suddenly, still staring out of the window, he saw the slight movement of a dark shape across the street, and he realized, hazel eyes narrowed, that he was being watched.

Just as he started to turn toward the abrasive, demanding pounding on the closed door behind him, he saw the figure in the shadows step out into the dim pool of light leaking from around the edges of a boarded up window, step out just far enough to allow Nick to see his face.

It was as if he wanted to be identified.

Nick saw the movement of the blond head, the face turned up to look at him, and he realized he had already met the watcher.

* * * * * * * *

The figure that boldly strode into his room through the opened doorway was the complete opposite of the younger man waiting down in the street, but Nick immediately wondered if they were here together. Unlike the tousled-hair blond, this man wore his dark hair smoothed down in place, almost vainly, and he smirked at Nick with an impertinence and arrogance that spoke volumes about his belief in his own self-importance, about who he thought was in control of the situation in Lonesome.

As he entered, he removed his black leather cap and, as if he were announcing his ownership of the room and of this meeting, he tossed it past Nick to land on the small, square table behind the larger man, as if he owned the place.

His overconfidence immediately set Nick’s teeth on edge.

“So, you’re Himself.”

Nick’s statement hung in the air between them, the dark leather of his vest with its silver conches in bright contrast to the weathered appearance of the smaller, but somehow, similarly imposing figure standing before him. Suddenly, he realized that this must be O’Doule, the name the girl downstairs had spoken fitting this individual better than it fit the blue-eyed blond he’d thought she was referring to.

The black-headed Irishman blew smoke in Nick’s face, then stepped over to the window, turning his back to it. With his dark eyes still watching Nick’s every move, he nodded and said, “Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Barkley, Nick Barkley.”

He immediately realized the blond from downstairs, to whom Nick had already told his name, had not been the one to pass on the message about this meeting, as the man’s eyes widened, surprised at the speaking of the name. The thought somehow made Nick feel better about the younger man. Maybe they weren’t together. . . .

“Barkley!” the man reacted as if he had been jabbed with the wooden handle of a pick-axe in the ribs. “Then, you’re not the company management. . . . You’re the company!”

“Yes, I represent the Barkley family, part owners in Barkley-Sierra. And, before we go any further, I want to talk to the men about this strike.”

“Talk? You came here to talk?” O’Doule shook his head in disbelief. “Look around you, Barkley.” Seeing the man’s impassive look, he toyed with his cigar, eyeing Nick carefully, and said, “It’s a little late for talk, don’t you think?”

“No. It’s never too late to try to put a stop to violence, to try to talk through the problems. I have a meeting with Murdoch in the morning. But, I wanted to hear from you and the men first.”

Shaking his head again, O’Doule said, “No, Barkley. I represent the men, and they have nothing to say to the likes of you, . . . to any other member of your family, . . . or the company.”

“Now, wait a minute. What are the issues here? If you’ll just tell me what they are, perhaps there’s something that can be done about them! I can’t make any promises, but I’ll. . . .”

O’Doule’s eyes widened, and dark fire flashed from them.

Interrupting Nick, he took two menacing steps forward and snarled, “Promises? PROMISES? It’s none of your promises any of us’ll be looking for, not from a lying, cheating, son of Tom Barkley!”

Nick stepped forward as well, his hazel eyes shooting sparks as he crossed his arms in an almost impossible attempt to keep himself from taking the angry Irishman apart at the seams.

Eyes narrowed dangerously, he snarled, “Why you little. . . .”

But, suddenly, their mutual ire was interrupted as the unlocked door behind Nick crashed open and a very drunk individual, supported only by his hold on a half-empty bottle of whiskey and the slender shoulders of Brydie Hanrahan, staggered inside. As the pair laughed and stumbled together toward the bed, falling across it, the drunk slurred, “Thanks-s-s for the us-s-se’a the bed, Deon.”

Pulling the girl on top of him and nuzzling her neck, the bottle still held high in his other hand, he let out a loud sigh of contentment.

Disgusted, O’Doule cursed at the intrusion, stepped toward Nick, and jabbing at his chest with his pointed finger, said, “Get out of Lonesome Camp while you still can, Barkley. It’s no bosses we’ll be needing here, and especially not any of your kind, with more of your empty promises.”

He stalked toward the doorway, turned around and locked eyes with the tall, dark-haired man standing in the middle of the room. Then, he glanced sideways at the pair on the bed, the rest of the world obviously already forgotten, and he laughed, “See, Barkley, you’re not even worth their attention!”

Then, he turned and left, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Nick stalked over to the bed, grabbed the girl unceremoniously around the waist from behind, and pulled her to her feet. Then, ignoring her fuming, sputtering outrage, he turned back to reach for the drunk lying across the faded quilt.

He found himself staring into the very blue eyes of the blond from downstairs.

“I ought to take you limb from limb!” Nick growled, his blood still boiling from his unresolved confrontation from moments ago. Hauling the sluggish young man up and off of his bed, he slammed him back into the wall behind them and held him there.

“Get out!” Nick said through clenched teeth, leaning in to make his demand into the closest ear.

Then, with both hands locked in the thoroughly brown cotton of the thin work shirt, Nick swung the blond around and, not caring that his intruder’s side slammed into the pine dresser against the wall, he barely heard the girl’s gasp as the piece of furniture scrapped across the floor at the force of the blow. He slung the unresisting, almost limp, obviously very drunk form toward the open door.

However, instead of the drunk falling out of the doorway and into the hallway as he expected, Nick was caught by surprise as the young man’s hand snagged the edge of the door, and slammed it closed in front of him at the last possible second.

Then, whirling around once the door was closed, Heath glared at Nick without a word. He suddenly held a wicked-looking knife in his hand, and his body crouched alertly in an instantly defensive stance,

As the two locked eyes, Nick too, went into a crouch, hands up and watching for any opening.

Chapter 5

“Brydie,” Heath said quietly, not breaking eye contact with his dark-haired adversary, “Dim the light.”

His voice, Nick noticed, was no longer slurred

When the room was shrouded in incomplete darkness, Heath straightened slowly, pale blue eyes still locked on the hazel of the man across from him. Very deliberately, he reached out to his right and placed the knife on top of the dresser.

He held up both hands in front of his chest and said, his voice still low and almost murmuring, as if he were speaking to a wild horse that needed soothing, “We’re not here ta make use’a your bed, Barkley.”

Blinking, Nick stood also, but he quickly snarled back, “Then, what do you want?”

“Want? From you?”

Nick stared in amazement as the blond before him chuckled lightly, then ignored him to walk fearlessly, though Nick noticed he was limping slightly, across the room. He stood beside the window, his side pressed against the wall and his back to Nick, as he moved the flimsy lace curtain aside slightly and peered out.

Without turning his head, he said quietly, “’Don’t want anything from you, Barkley.”

“Then, why’re you here?”

Nick, beginning to relax, glanced at the girl as she moved back toward the bed, slender fingers re-buttoning the top of her blouse over her chemise. Keeping one eye on her and one on the still figure across the room, Nick saw her pick up the bottle lying on the bed, remove the cork with her teeth, and walk back over to the dresser to pick up the two empty glasses. She walked toward the table and placed the items on it, pouring ample, amber liquid into each.

Still waiting on the reply to his question, Nick watched her pick up one glass again, walk across the room to the blond, and standing up on her tip-toes, kiss the young man softly on the cheek as she handed him the glass. Then, Nick saw the lop-sided smile and loving look the blond shared with her, as he reached up with his other hand and tapped her lightly on the tip of her nose.

The tension in the blond now eased slightly, he turned to stare at Nick, wondering if the man was worth the price he and Brydie may have to pay later for being here now.

But, the moment of reflection didn’t last.

“Look!” Nick said, puzzled about what was going on, “I don’t have time for your games. I asked you a question, Boy!”

“Brydie,” Heath said evenly after a second’s pause, the blue eyes immediately narrowed, staring at Nick, “Here.”

He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a gold coin, handing it to her.

“Go on back downstairs. If they ask, just smile an’ tell them I’m probably still lyin’ in the alley out back where he tossed me.”

He nodded his head toward the dark-headed man across from them.

Open mouthed, the girl looked down at the coin Heath had placed in the palm of her hand. Then, she lifted her sad eyes up to look him in the face, one hand fingering the thin sleeve of his brown shirt.

“I can’t take this, Heath. Not when ye already . . .”

“Yes,” he said emphatically, closing her fingers around it, while giving her another lop-sided smile, “You can, an’ you will, . . . ta protect us both. An’, if need be, you’ll flaunt it at them, as only you can, ta let them know you were here only b’cause you were paid ta be.”

Closing her eyes briefly, she then gave him another quick kiss on his unshaven cheek, and reached up to touch him in the same spot with the palm of her hand.

“Thank you, Heath,” she breathed, then turned without glancing at Nick, gathered her skirt, and fled from the room, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Once the door was closed behind her, Nick turned back to look at the back of the blond, who had never changed his stance at the window.

Nick crossed over to the other side of the bed and sat down in the moth-eaten, stuffed gold chair facing the center of the room. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, shivering slightly, in spite of himself, in the sudden chill of the place.

As he took a swallow from the glass he had picked up from the table, he heard the soft drawl of the blond repeating his own question back at him, “Why’re you here, Barkley?”

Suddenly, he realized, this young man may be able to answer his questions better than the man, called O’Doule, could have done. The black-hearted devil that had left a little while ago was probably the source of the violence, and had too much to hide to be of any help.

And, this boy?

Well, Nick surmised, though probably involved in it at some level and a threat for a betrayal at any moment, he was possibly also a reasonable source of information. He would see what he could find out, while keeping a close eye on him, maintaining his vigilance in case the young man again became a threat.

He decided to answer the question, hoping it would lead to more answers to his own.

“My family owns an interest in Barkley-Sierra, and we want to know what the issues are, why the men are striking, and why all this violence, all of a sudden.”

Heath kept his eyes on the darkness outside the window, but Nick noticed he was starting to sag a bit, leaning now on his hand against the windowsill, as well as the shoulder propped against the wall.

For a fleeting second, Nick felt concerned for him, hearing again the breath going out of the younger man when he had slammed him against the wall, then against the furniture a little while before.

Before he could say anything about it, however, he heard the soft drawl ask without a trace of the expected sarcasm, “How much of an interest? Enough ta control the company? . . . Or, are the votes controlled by someone else?. . . Who handles the proxy majority, Barkley?”

Startled, Nick’s mouth dropped open. He stared at the side of the young man’s face, unable to see the blue eyes still watching out the window.

“The proxy?” he asked, incredulously. “But. . . . ? How . . . . ?”

Heath took his eyes away from scouring the street, only for a piece of one fleeting second, but it was long enough for Nick Barkley to see the carefully controlled anger behind the glance.

“What’d ya’ think, Barkley? That just ‘cause I’m covered in the dirt from your mine, with no time ta look out at ta’morrow, for scratchin’ out’a livin’ ta’day, that I don’t know how it’s done in your world?”

He took a breath and continued, his jaw clenched warningly, “Stock exchanges an’ fancy business suits, proxy votes an’ lawyer-created contracts, shareholders that wouldn’t know a stringer from a spill if they walked right up to one, deep in the depths of the mine. . . . Oh, you are so wrong, Barkley!”

Nick narrowed his eyes as he rose from his chair, and placed his glass on the table as he crossed the room. He stood staring at the younger man from the other side of the window, his arms crossed.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice puzzled, his irritation held in check by a barrier he couldn’t see, but could feel, . . . as if to span the remaining space between them was to step blindly into the lair of an unknown adversary whose tactics he didn’t understand, but was already beginning to begrudgingly respect.

The blond continued to watch the street from the window, ignoring the question and the glaring cowboy in front of him.

“I asked you a question, Boy. Who are you?”

Neither intimidated by the tone, nor the presence of the dark-haired man, the only indication that he had even heard Nick was the lifting of his left eyebrow and the slight change in the set of his mouth.

Quietly, he said, “Told ya’, Barkley, my name’s Heath. An’ right now, I suggest ya’ get some sleep, for what’s left’a this night, anyway. Then, ta’morrow, if you’ll accept help from this ignorant, dirt-covered miner, I’ll get ya’ out’a this camp b’fore the Mollies decide ta’ come a’callin’.”

“I don’t need your help, Boy,” Nick clenched his teeth together and growled deep in his throat. “But, I do need some answers.”

Removing his hat, he stalked over toward the table and placed the stetson on it. Then, he turned back, standing behind Heath this time, out of sight from the street below, but facing it, and he lifted the glass he held, waiting.

Heath’s head came up, and, turning slightly, he met Nick’s eyes for a moment, blue touching hazel, before he silently lifted his own glass in salute and downed a swallow, before returning his eyes to the street.

Nick took a swallow as well, noting the mediocre quality, but satisfied with the burn in the back of his throat. Then, he slowly reached up with his other hand. He almost grasped the slightly shorter man by the shoulder, but, he paused, his hand unseen behind the blond, and slowly lowered it again.

Turning away, he returned to the gold chair.

How was he supposed to know if he could trust this irritating, irascible stranger?

Then, thinking hard, he settled back into the worn fabric and continued to watch the blond.

He could see the exhaustion in the way Heath leaned against the windowsill, and he wondered just how badly he had bruised him in the earlier struggle to get him out of the room.

Shaking his head, Nick smiled slightly at the ploy Heath and the girl had used to interrupt the building battle inside the room. . . . Or, had it been a ploy to stop O’Doule’s actions after all? Maybe, they were in with O’Doule, and had just used the scheme to get Heath inside this room to watch him.

Suddenly, he recalled the money Heath had given the girl, and her incredulous disbelief, along with her words.

“I can’t take this, Heath. Not when ye already . . .”

Watching the blond, wondering what she had meant, Nick knew he’d never find out all of it by asking straight out.

Instead, he spoke up and asked, “What did you mean when you said the Mollies would come calling? Who are the Mollies?”

Chapter 6

“Well, now,” Heath drawled quietly, “I wouldn’t want ta claim the honor’a being Irish, so I don’t rightly come by my information straight on. . . . But, I’ve heard tell that the Mollie Maguires’re part of a secret group called the Ancient Order’a Hibernians. Maybe you’ve heard’a them? They’ve been stirrin’ things up in the coal mines’a Pennsylvania for years.”

“Pennsylvania?” Nick looked shocked that something so far away could affect them here. “When you say stirring things up in Pennsylvania, are you talking about those murders of some of the managers of the Philadelphia and Reading Coal and Iron Company?”

Heath never removed his eyes from the window, but he nodded his head.

“The governor there should’ve brought in the troops at the start of their trouble. Then, they’d have never endured such a prolonged struggle. If our governor had any guts, he’d send them in here!”

“Now, wait a minute!” the quiet young man protested, turning his head to meet Nick’s eyes, his own pale blue narrowed to slits of stormy steel. “Troops aren’t the answer.”

He met the hard, uncompromising hazel eyes of the dark-haired rancher for several silent seconds, before he broke contact and returned his gaze to the street below.

Nick continued to watch the young man standing by the window in the dim light. As soon as Heath’s back was turned again, he shook his head, trying to push away the thought that once more came to him, unbidden.

The seething anger, rising up as it had, out of the depths of the blue eyes, had suddenly pushed Nick years into the past.

Again, he heard a voice, as if spoken from beside him once more, and he closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the bright sunshine pushing through the dappled leaves of the grove, seeing the two strangers, messengers from the Coastal and Western, sitting their horses across from the two Barkleys. In his mind, he heard the echo of the angry, verbal retort, and he saw the narrowed blue eyes of the one person he longed to have beside him again, more than any other in the world.

Quickly, Nick opened his eyes, and downed the rest of his drink. Then, he stood and stalked to the table, refilling it.

If he didn’t stop lapsing into the past, thinking of things, of people, best left there. . . at least until he was alone to do his remembering, . . . it was going to be a long night.

Slowly, he walked over to stand on the opposite side of the window again, facing the blond. He watched the serious, focused face while Heath kept watch on the street.

Firmly, after a few moments, Nick asked, “Then, you tell me, what is the answer? They’re destroying private property, and. . . .”

But, he never got a chance to finish, as he saw Heath’s jaw clench tightly, his eyes losing their focus for a moment.

Then, in a tightly controlled voice, his glaring blue eyes now boring the dark drift of a tunnel straight through to Nick’s heart, Heath said, “There are women an’ children. . . . children, Barkley, . . . in this camp! . . . Even you an’ your family wouldn’t be so thoughtless as ta want ta send in troops ta settle this, . . . not inta a place with mothers with no hope, an’ young’uns with no future, . . .families that could suffer even more loss as a result’a your actions.”

Something in the voice, something in the eyes, obviously seeing things that Nick could not, remembering things that Nick would never know, almost made Nick stop breathing for an instant.

Suddenly, he realized there was more here, more to this young man than he had been giving him credit for.

Up until now, Nick had been wary, waiting for the moment when the young man in front of him tried to attack him or tried to help the friends he was watching for break into his room and overpower him.

Nick had been watching for the betrayal he was sure would come.

But, all of a sudden, with crystal clarity, Nick saw the sincerity of the blond’s actions, heard the sincerity of the impassioned words, and he felt the fist of that understanding hit him square in the gut.

Almost as if it had a will of its own, his left hand moved forward once more, reaching out toward the shoulder of the young man whose flaming ire had been replaced with a searing sadness.

Stopping himself, however, Nick turned away from the window and, eyes blinking rapidly, stalked back over to the chair. As he sat down, he resumed his watch and saw that Heath had resumed his vigil as well. . . . for vigil it was, though not for the reasons Nick had assumed.

He studied the blond again, from across the room, really looking at him for the first time, really concentrating on him, instead of thinking about the duplicity he was sure would be revealed any time.

Heath wore coarse brown, loose-fitting work pants and a slightly darker, brown cotton shirt, though the top three buttons were undone. The back of the shirt was hanging down, as if . . .

Nick suddenly grimaced at the evidence that Heath had been in a fight, . . . with him, . . .

Now that he thought about it, he realized the young man had continued to play the part of a drunk and had not fought back, as Nick had tried to physically oust him from the room earlier----right up until the moment the view from the hallway had been cut off by the slamming of the door.

As he continued his survey of the figure across from him, Nick was stopped cold as he took in the rough, greyish-brown cloth of the unbuttoned, vest-like layer Heath wore over his thin shirt. Glancing back around the room, then, Nick realized the garment was as close to a coat as he had seen the younger man wear, and he realized, with a start, that it was probably all that he had.

It was obvious now to Nick, now that he really looked, that Heath could ill afford the money he had pressed into the girl’s hand a little while ago, and her words now made sense to him.

Swallowing hard, Nick Barkley watched the weary slant of the hard, lean muscles of the young man’s shoulders, and somehow, he knew. . . . knew beyond any doubt, that the blond, though an employee of Barkley-Sierra Mining Company, though in a sense an employee of Nick’s own family, was keeping watch over him, protecting him from an, as yet, unseen threat, and that he had nothing else, nothing except himself, to give.

* * * * * * * *

The room was shrouded in silent greyness when Nick stirred stiffly from the chair. He reached up and ran his fingers through his disheveled dark hair, before rising with a groan and making his way over toward the basin of water on the dresser.

Then, remembering, he stopped suddenly, realizing with a start that the young man called Heath was no longer standing by the window. He turned to look around the room, half expecting to see the brown-clothed blond lying across the quilt on the bed, asleep.

But, in the dim light of the grey dawn, he knew immediately that, except for himself, the room was empty.

* * * * * * * *

Nick emerged from the mine, tired, dusty, very thirsty, and more than a little worried.

Glancing at the sun beginning to settle toward the west, its weak yellow sliding slowly toward a hazy orange in the overcast late afternoon, he shivered slightly in the wind picking up around him. Inside the mine, the temperature had been consistent and cool, but comfortable, with only a slight dampness in the air giving it an edge. But, once out here, he pulled his coat a little closer, fighting back the urge to shiver in the wind.

He tromped around the site, lifting a canvas tarp here and there, hoping to see fresh timbers piled up and ready to be taken into the mine, but finding only covered equipment, waiting for laborers.

As he removed his hat, hitting it against his black-clothed leg to remove some of the dust, his thoughts immediately drifted toward the blond-headed, younger man, and he wondered again about the lack of warm clothing he had observed last night.

He had not seen the blond all day today, despite walking the streets of the camp shortly after lunch, trying to get a feel for the conditions and circumstances of its inhabitants. He had stepped into the company store twice during his wanderings, and both times, it had been the same. . . dusty and quite devoid of clientele. The few items stocked on the shelves reflected a taste for staples, for basic necessities, and not much else.

Only one thing seemed worthy of notice, and Nick still wondered about it, as he stood at the entrance to the equally empty mine, slowly pushing his gloved fingers through his hair and replacing his hat.

Just as there was no sign of fresh timber to replace the rotting supports inside the mine, he had seen no prices affixed to anything inside the store today.

Shaking his head as he started toward his horse, he recalled his very brief conversation with the inhospitable man behind the counter. . . at least as long as it had lasted before the man had glanced up, seeing O’Doule lurking in the doorway, and had skeedadled toward the back of the store.

The man had acted like Nick was speaking a foreign language when he had asked the man about the prices, wringing his hands in his stained apron, shaking his head fit to rattle his brains around inside his shaggy, grey-haired head, and had just said, “Ain’t no need for ‘em. All who buy know the cost.”

Mounting his horse, Nick trotted her up the dusty road, heading back toward the gate, wishing for the tenth time today that he could ask anyone, even the taciturn blond, about the things that he had seen, both the condition inside the mine, and the puzzling items in the store.

He glanced toward the company office as he approached, and shook his head again, thinking over his early morning conversation with the staid superintendent, Collin Murdoch.

The man was worried, but was hiding it well behind his steadfast confidence in “company management” to solve the problem and return the mine to full operation within the week.

When he had introduced himself to Murdoch and had asked about the violence, nodding toward the white sling supporting the man’s broken arm, the vehemence behind the answer had not surprised Nick. However, the man’s efforts to downplay the situation certainly did.

“The work of a few vicious malcontents.”

“You’ve been shut down for weeks,” Nick asserted, starting to pace back and forth across the small space from doorway to wood stove.

“I know, Mr. Barkley,” Murdoch responded, trying to remain calm in the face of the irritated exuberance of his visitor. “But, I’ve been in constant communication with Mr. Hummel since he took over management of the company. We’ve been working on the problem.”

Nick demanded, jabbing one gloved finger toward the door, “Have you tried talking to the men?”

“There’s no talking to them. They’re demanding the sky. . . new housing, elimination of the company store. . . things that have nothing to do with reasonable requests.”

“Is that why they went on strike?” Nick’s withering look as he walked back toward the man, told Murdoch he wasn’t buying it.

Hesitantly, the man added honestly, “Well, I told Mr. Hummel that it wasn’t the right time to cut wages.”

Feeling he was finally getting somewhere, Nick asked forcefully, “Is that why they went on strike? Because you cut wages? . . . Why? This is a producing mine. There’s ore inside for another ten years.”

Standing up from where he had been leaning on a table strewn with reports and figures, Murdoch reacted to the tone of Nick’s voice, his mounting worry pushing him toward defensiveness, “And then what? A dead hole in the ground with nothing in it?. . . Mr. Barkley, every penny I have in this world is tied up in that mine. Every penny----five thousand shares of Barkley-Sierra. I deserve to get whatever profit I can.”

“And, what about the people that work for you in that mine?” Nick demanded, not caring for the self-serving attitude of the man, even if it was possibly born of the bitterness over the attack on his life.

The answer was instant and caustic, “Don’t expect me to feel anything for the bunch of murderers that gave me this!” Murdoch gestured toward his arm, his thoughts recalling the violence in the streets of the camp several days ago, and the deliberate explosion in which the driver of his wagon had been killed. He had almost fallen victim as well, and he knew that, in the aftermath, his dreams would long be haunted by it.

Concern for the man and what he had been through softening his tone slightly, Nick stepped toward him and asked, “Then what about your own interests? Your shares are losing value while the mine is shut down.”

“I have complete confidence in the company management. In fact, I’ve given Mr. Hummel my proxy to vote my shares. He assures me that the mine will be open in a week.”

Nick’s quick temper resurfaced. He had turned away from the man and had begun pacing again. But, at the man’s words, he whirled around and glared at him, his hazel eyes hard, suspicion sizzling behind them, “How? The only way to open that mine is if you use strikebreakers.”

Confirming his concerns, Murdoch lowered his voice and replied, “Mr. Hummel tells me that it’s the only way. He assures me that the Chinese are a docile and industrious people who will work cheaply.”

Staring at him, thinking swiftly through the possible ramifications of what the man was saying, Nick demanded in billowing disbelief, “You’re bringing in Chinese? Do you know what can happen? Do you?”

At the man’s blank look, Nick grabbed up his hat from the nearby counter and stepped over toward him. Standing within a few inches of the man’s face, Nick snarled at him, his gloved hand aching to reach out and shake him by the front of his shirt.

Only the stark, white reminder of the injury the man had already suffered, stopped him.

Then, in a low, menacing voice, Nick growled, “Murdoch, if you do that, you’ll pull the cork on more trouble than you or Sam Hummel can handle.”

Turning on his heel, Nick stalked toward the door, nearly yanked it from its hinges as he opened it, and slammed it on his way out.

Now, he sat his horse impatiently, waiting for the two men to open the gate for him to leave. He wondered if Jarrod had received his wire yet, the wire explaining the situation here, urging him to verify the information, and, if necessary, to nail Sam Hummel’s greasy hide to the wall of the San Francisco Mining Exchange before the day was out.

Chapter 7

The fire sizzling in the grate was the room’s only light, its golden glow dancing across the polished shine of the hardwood paneling surrounding him.

Jarrod sat with his black leather chair facing the fire, his well-oiled boots propped up on a tweed-covered ottoman and a glass of his favorite scotch in his hand. A pleased smile crossed his face as he sipped his drink, thinking again of the visitor who had only been gone a short time, and of their satisfying conversation, though both had not thought of it that way.

Oh, yes, he had enjoyed seeing the fleeting look of surprise when he had told the greedy old man of his intent to file a petition with the stockholders against him to halt the plan to bring Chinese into Lonesome Camp as scabs for the current situation.

He was sure now that “Uncle Samuel,” a facetious title bestowed on the man only because Jarrod knew it rankled him, not because of any relation to the Barkleys, had indeed realized that the discontent of the miners was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He had most probably, as Nick’s telegram had suggested, deliberately pushed the men to their breaking point by lowering the wages and purposefully starting the strike, just so he would have an excuse to bring in cheap labor, and increase his profits as a result.

Jarrod narrowed his eyes, trying to picture the effect this move would have on the entire mining industry, not just on this one mine partially owned by his family.

He vividly recalled several examples of violence that had had their catalyst in the railroad’s similar activities years back. They had occurred during the fledgling attempts to piece together the transcontinental transportation system, which had come to rely on the Chinese labor that he knew had probably made the difference between completing the railroad during the late 1860’s and taking years longer.

So far, throughout the state, the occasional clashes between Chinese and Irish miners had remained at the level of small-scale operations, with rumors circulating sporadically of individual deaths and one-on-one violence between placer miners struggling over an isolated claim here or there in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.

One particular story stood out in his mind, about how a small group of Irishmen had wanted to get rid of a Chinese miner, and they had accused the man of stealing a mule. It was not until after they had taken the law into their own hands and hung the man, that the owner of the missing mule returned from a trip and said that the one that had been found at the Chinaman’s claim was not his at all. The Chinese community had remained, rightfully so, stirred up about the situation for months afterwards.

Shaking his head ruefully, Jarrod could not imagine what kind of response would follow a major outbreak of violence in a mine bearing such a prominent name. It would be like touching off a series of wildfires simultaneously throughout the state. And, it would probably not be a blaze easily snuffed out until it had spread from Lonesome Camp all up and down the backbone of the mountain range serving as the host for California’s mining operations, probably as far as the eastern side of the Sierras and the whole state of Nevada as well.

Hundreds could die, if that happened.

Even in San Francisco, the city where he now stood and the one with the first Chinatown on the west coast, the repercussions would be felt, as anti-Chinese sentiment, already a growing movement, would gain even more momentum.

He stood up and crossed over to the fire, enjoying its warmth, but, as he leaned against the mantel in an unconscious reflection of one of his father’s most typical gestures, he saw in its cheerful flames only a heated reminder of the potentially devastating violence that must be stopped before it started.

* * * * * * * *

She paused as she stood at the counter, sharp knife in one hand. She stared down at the small cubes of raw beef and the rich, red blood oozing out onto her hand, before she dropped all of them into the large pot of steaming water on top of the stove.

After glancing over at the back of her father’s head, where he sat silently facing the softly crackling fire in the crude, ramshackle room, she turned back to her task and wiped her hands on her apron.

Again, she paused, however, and she closed her bright green eyes.

Her thoughts all day had continually drifted back to Heath.

She could see him again as he was last night, standing by the window in one of Newton’s upstairs rooms, watching the street, but pausing in his single-minded task long enough to have a care for her. Shaking her dark head, she opened her eyes and reached out for the wooden spoon lying on the counter. Stirring the pot of thickening soup absently, she wished she could figure out where he had gone today. She had wanted to invite him to supper, to share the bounty of what his money had provided.

Then, smiling softly, she thought of how protective he had been of her yesterday when the dark-headed stranger had grabbed hold of her, and again when the blond had insisted she take the money and tell whatever tales were necessary to keep herself in the clear when she returned downstairs.

She had not been fooled by his assertion that it was to protect himself as well, for it wasn’t the first time he had come to her rescue.

She looked over her shoulder, and her eyes fell on the dark brown wool of the cloak hanging from the peg by the door. Without him, she would not have had the material for the warm garment, nor would she have had the time to fashion it from the thick blankets he had delivered to her door last month. Shivering slightly, she remembered all too well how much difference his generosity had made as she had trudged home from Newton’s saloon in the wee hours of the morning for the last several weeks, after the money he had given her earlier had run out, and she had had to return to working there.

With a twinkle in her eye, she remembered how he had stood there so quietly the day he brought the blankets, that lop-sided smile on his face, accepting her quick kiss on his cheek for the first time.

But, frowning slightly, she wondered about his reluctance to accept more than the simple appreciation he had allowed her to show. Though his light blue eyes spoke of how much he cared, he seemed to find a way to change the subject whenever she tried to ask him about himself, to find out more about him, or to turn the conversation toward the possible future for the two of them.

And, stomping her foot in irritated confusion, she cursed under her breath and wondered why he steadily, though always politely, refused her overtures of affection whenever she tried to offer them.

“Oh, and you’re a wise one, Heath Thomson,” she whispered, picking up her knife again and chopping the small, white onions into bits. Closing her eyes against the sting of the onion, then, she didn’t stop to wonder at the cause of the hot tears that suddenly scalded her cheeks.

But, her heart knew, as she thought woefully to herself, “Every time ye take me by my arms and set me back down on my heels after trying to kiss those fine lips of yours, all ye really succeed in doing is in making me want ye the more.”

* * * * * * * *

Very little moonlight filtered through the dirt-covered window, and the stationary shadows created by the sparse furnishings were only slightly darker than their surroundings.

With the exception of his gun belt, Nick Barkley was fully dressed beneath the thick quilt covering the bed, and his hooded eyes kept a drowsy vigil, his need for sleep warring with his need to keep alert enough for quick action if necessary.

The streets of the camp and the main floor of the saloon had been eerily quiet in the late evening hours before he had returned to his room. Despite leaving word earlier in the day with the barkeep downstairs that he wanted to meet with the miners tonight . . . and that he would be buying the beer, . . . the place had remained empty.

He and the man called Newton, the only other person there, had eyed each other silently from across the room as the hour had grown later, as the message he had intended to convey had been thrown back in his face with the obvious absence of any patrons to hear it.

Not even the girl, the one from last night, had shown up.

Finally, Nick had left the glaring bartender, whose meager business had apparently been ruined for the evening by Nick’s invitation and stubborn presence, proper compensation lying beneath the empty glass he turned upside down on the table. Then, contrary to his nature, Nick had given up in silent, irritated, . . . though he vowed, temporary, . . . defeat and had stomped up the stairs to his room just before midnight.

Entering his room, he had realized that his chances, or that of any other Barkley, to single-handedly affect the outcome of the coming conflict between company management and the miners, was much less a possibility than he had originally thought.

Now, jerking himself awake for what seemed the one-hundredth time, he wholeheartedly wished he had insisted on a fresh pot of coffee downstairs instead of slowly sipping that rotgut the bartender passed off as whiskey.

His thoughts drifted toward his brother, wondering again if Jarrod had received his telegram, and if he was making any headway toward getting a handle on the situation there, since Nick was obviously not going to be able to do much from here.

Shifting restlessly in the cold of the room, he nearly growled aloud in frustration.

How were they going to get Sam Hummel, who now held more voting weight than the Barkleys would be able to muster, to change his mind about bringing in Chinese to break the strike? Use of any scabs would be like setting a lit match to a dangling fuse on the end of a dry keg of dynamite, . . . but Chinese?

Nick had grown up on too many stories of conflicts between railroad-building crews in the last ten years, most of them made up of Irish and Chinese workers, to believe there would be any peaceful resolution, once the players were all in place here in Lonesome. The coming clash would be inevitable once the miners realized that their jobs, despite the reduced wages, were in permanent jeopardy.

Letting out a loud sigh, he crossed his arms beneath the quilt, adjusted his head on the poor excuse for a pillow, and stared out into the dark of the room. Tomorrow, he would have one more try at talking to the two very different men controlling the situation here, both the superintendent, Collin Murdoch, and the Irishman, O’Doule, before he headed home to discuss the options still open to his family.

* * * * * * * *

The darkness was heavy and still when Nick was suddenly awakened, his eyes opening widely, as a hand slipped over his mouth to silence any protest, and a voice started speaking into his ear.

Chapter 8

“Get up, Barkley!” the quiet voice hissed, as Heath covered Nick’s mouth with one hand and threw back the quilt at the same moment with the other.

Heath lifted a surprised eyebrow, impressed in spite of himself, at finding the dark-headed man completely dressed underneath. But, he covered his reaction by pointing down at Nick’s fine leather boots and saying quietly, “An’, leave off the jingly spurs. That’s noise we don’t need.”

Rising quickly, his face a mask of fury, Nick grabbed for the blond, as the smaller man made the mistake of turning him loose and turning his back on him, as he reached for Nick’s tan coat across the brass footboard and started to throw it at him.

Heath whirled around, breaking from the scrabbling one-handed hold, and crouched defensively, hands up and ready for a fight, glaring at Nick in the darkness.

Hand on the pistol he had slid beneath his pillow hours before, Nick pointed the weapon at the blond, eyeing him warily.

Keeping his voice low, Nick growled, “Why’re you here, Boy?”

Watching his eyes, though they were barely visible in the dark, Heath was sure the man would not fire the gun at him, at least, he didn’t think he would as long as Heath did not provoke him. Instead, he ignored the question, ignored the menacing weapon, and stood up, crossing the floor to resume the position by the window he had manned the night before.

Eyes narrowed at the bold action, at the blatant disregard for Nick’s implied threat against him, the dark-haired man kept the gun trained on the younger man’s back, but silently concentrated on trying to figure out what was going on.

Over his shoulder, the blond spoke softly, his drawl evident, even in the quiet tone of his words, “Ya’ wanted ta know about the Mollies. Well, you’re about ta get the chance ta meet some’a them.”

He inclined his head slightly toward the street below.

Instantly, Nick lowered the gun, stepped over behind Heath, and stood looking over his shoulder, down into the street. His eyes widened at the number of men walking toward the saloon, carrying flaming torches and tools. Suddenly, he heard two men shouting at each other, and he realized one was the barkeep from downstairs, and the other was none other than O’Doule.

“I’ll say this for you, Barkley,” Heath said, a slight hint of amusement in his tone, “Ya’ sure do bring out the best in folks.”

“Why’re you doing this?” Nick asked, suspicious and puzzled all over again as to why the blond was sticking his neck out for him.

“Just don’t cotton ta seein’ anyone else gettin’ killed over some hole in the ground, is all. Now, let’s go!”

Willing to once again trust that the blond, for whatever reason, was here to help him, Nick finally reached out and squeezed the shoulder of the younger man, and he said, “If we get out of this, Boy, I promise you, you’ll never have to see the inside of this one or any other mine, if you don’t want to.”

Heath turned and looked Nick full in the eye for a few seconds. Then, both eyebrows lifted slightly as he winced as if he were in pain, and his vision momentarily turned inward.

Two, simultaneous, and completely opposite emotions crashed through the blond, almost staggering him. He reached out for the windowsill, trying to steady himself.

As one, his throat was seized by the fierce hatred that flared up instantly at the man’s use of the word ‘promise,’ and he gasped for a deep, ragged breath, just as an overwhelming, long-dormant feeling of sudden, pervasive, and unaccustomed warmth, threatened to spread outward from the firm grasp on his shoulder, as if the man behind him was trying to plunge a hot lance from his shoulder into his chest, trying to thaw his heart.

Nick stared back, seeing the young man’s sudden distress. He tightened his grip on the muscular shoulder.

But, before he could speak, Heath set his jaw in a hard line, narrowed his eyes, and determinedly lifted his chin. He said evenly, fighting with himself and no longer bothering to whisper, “Save your promises, Barkley. I don’t want them. . . . Now, let’s go.”

The rebuff causing Nick to step back a surprised pace, he watched as the blond pushed past him and, after opening the door cautiously, stepped out into the hall. Shaking his head and trying to control his rising anger at the younger man’s unexpected response, Nick tucked his coat under his arm, grabbed his hat, holster, and saddlebags, and, leaving behind his spurs, followed him out the door.

* * * * * * * *

Slipping quietly down the dark, side stairwell, Heath paused at the bottom to wait for the slightly larger man descending behind him. He hauled in another shaky breath, closing his eyes for no more than an instant before opening them again. Then, he cracked open the wooden exterior door and searched the shadows immediately outside for movement or noise. Glancing back at Nick, he held up three fingers to let the man behind him know how much resistance he should expect.

Nick nodded as the blond reached around behind his back and pulled a knife, the same one he had produced the night before, from a sheath hidden under the cloth of his vest. Handing it silently to Nick, Heath hesitated only for a moment, swearing silently inside his head.

Dammit!

He had been hoping that he could get Barkley out to the edge of the camp unseen. Now, he was going to be forced to accompany the man, for once Deon and the others saw him helping one of the bosses, saw him taking up arms against them, he would be unable to stay here.

Taking a deep breath at this forced decision, his fleeting thoughts on Brydie and how she would have to provide a living for herself and her father without his help, Heath lifted one booted foot and slid out a second knife, which he kept in his own hand. For an instant, he felt a flared match of hatred for the man behind him sear through his heart. . . for making him choose between the three of them. Then, glancing back, he swallowed hard, letting the match go out, letting the hatred die as quickly as it had caught fire.

It was O’Doule who was forcing this choice, not the Barkley behind him.

Seeing Nick’s nod of readiness, he slowly nodded back and eased the door open. Then, wasting no more time on silent wishes and ‘what if’s,’ he lunged out into the darkness.

Nick barreled through the door right behind him, and he grabbed the last of the three men who were rushing past the doorway, trying to get at the blond who had emerged first. Nick whirled the man around, away from the others, and then, hit him once in the face with his fist as the man came back at him.

Unfazed, the man shook it off and returned with a punch to Nick’s ribs. They continued pummeling each other then, trading several staggering blows, before Nick, watching out of the corner of his eye, saw the man pull out a knife of his own.

Then, dancing warily around each other, they each managed to draw blood, Nick catching the man across the right arm, but feeling the hot chill of the blade slice across his own chest as he struggled to take a step back in the obstacle-ridden space.

Recovering, Nick lunged forward, then quickly feinted backwards, drawing the man in close, and, . . . ready for him, Nick let fly with his other arm, bashing the man square in his face with a fierce uppercut.

The unexpected blow sent the older man floundering wildly backwards into some crates stacked up by the door.

Assured that the fallen man wasn’t getting up anytime soon, Nick reached out to grab the second one, pulling him away from the blond, who had his hands full trying to beat them both back. Just as he used his grip on the man’s shirt to whirl him away long enough to move into a defensive stance, ready for his return, Nick experienced a brief second of confusion.

Why had the blond not used his knife on his attackers?

But, he immediately pushed his question back long enough to concentrate on the man in front of him, as the huge, curly-haired man advanced back in on him, a broken board, pulled loose from a fallen crate, now in his hands.

Nick was forced backwards several steps as the man lunged forward, swinging the piece of wood with a sweeping motion, trying to take the cowboy down in one swoop. Unable to spare a look in the direction of the blond still fighting with the third man, Nick jumped back again, as the board barely missed connecting with his side.

Realizing the knife was not going to help him much now, Nick concentrated on keeping his feet under him in the dark alley . . . .

Suddenly, the man lifted the jagged board and took a swing at Nick’s head.

Finding himself too close to the wall to maneuver, Nick threw his arm up high to protect himself. He heard the sickening snap of the bone as the force of the swing all but knocked him to his knees, the end of the board catching him across the left forearm. Nick cried out, pulled his left arm protectively against his chest, and, seeing the man coming toward him again, he reached for his gun with the other hand.

“No!” Heath warned with a low shout, as he instantly threw the knife he was holding into the chest of the man advancing on Nick, then swiftly lunged for the one in front of him, who had become distracted by the throw. With a swift blur of motion, Heath plowed into the man with both fists, catching him beneath the jaw and sending him flying into the wall with the last punch.

Staggering the few steps to stand over Nick’s fallen, now dead, assailant, Heath hauled in air raggedly, and wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his sweat-streaked forehead.

Then, after quickly checking the three unmoving men, Heath leaned down to grab Nick under his uninjured arm. He pulled him to his feet unceremoniously, tearing Nick’s incredulous eyes away from the knife buried to the hilt in the heart of the man lying beside him.

“Can ya’ make it, Barkley?”

“Right behind you, Boy,” Nick growled, his teeth set against the pounding in his arm that threatened to knock his feet out from under him again. Starting forward, following the blond, he held his arm close to his chest with his right hand, and he pointedly ignored the blood that he could feel dripping down inside his shirt, an only recently remembered after-effect from the first man’s knife.

Forcing his boots to keep moving, to keep up, Nick struggled to stay even with the blond running down the alley beside him, his hand still under Nick’s right arm.

As they neared the far corner of the building, Heath released him. Nick’s head was down slightly, and his breathing was heavy. He had been beginning to lag slightly behind before they stopped, and he watched Heath crouch down low, and ease around to get a better view of the side of the building.

Then, returning quickly, Heath motioned for Nick to join him. When he saw the slow reaction, the hesitation of the dark-haired man, he reached back out to grasp Nick beneath the uninjured arm and drag him along.

“Get movin’, Barkley!” Heath growled softly, trying to hide his worry about the taller man, even from himself. Then, his quiet voice carrying a note of encouragement, he added, “Not much further.”

They rounded the far corner of the building, and Nick was immensely relieved to see his horse, and one more, tied to the railing just beyond the rickety boardwalk. He shook off the supporting hand and stepped over toward his liver chestnut.

But, Heath wasted no time listening to Nick’s snarled protests as he assisted the faltering man into the saddle, placed the reins in Nick’s right hand, crossed quickly beneath his own horse’s neck, and, having prepared for this possibility, but not at all happy about it, he vaulted into his saddle.

Turning their mounts, they both knew their quickest route out of the camp would take them right by the swarm of men down by the saloon.

Glancing over at Nick, Heath said, “If ya’ can make it ten or more miles down the road, I think the worst’ll be behind us. Very few’a them have their own horses ta follow us with, an’ they won’t be expectin’ that you’ve gotten by them in the first place. It’ll take time for them ta get movin’.”

Though slightly hunched over, holding his arm close, Nick grinned, his white teeth flashing a winning smile at the blond beside him.

Lifting his reins, he said, “This camp may be your territory, Boy, but this saddle’s mine. The question is more likely to be, can you keep up with me!”

As he touched his boots to his horse’s sides, she leapt forward, even without the use of the spurs he’d left behind, and Nick moved with her, never seeing the irony in the lifted eyebrow and the lop-sided grin the blond cast in his direction, as he urged his own mount to follow.

Chapter 9

Bending down low over his horse’s neck, Nick glanced back only once as they galloped up the dark street, its inky blackness broken by the flickering torches raised high by the surprised, shouting men as they swept past them. Though a couple of shots rang out, aimed at them by men more accustomed to making their living with a pickaxe than a firearm, the pair was in front of the mob, and then, beyond them, before more than a few thrown tools and rocks could reach them.

They did not slow until their mounts had carried them well over a mile from the mining town, the rhythm of their hoof beats easing down from hard charging to merely thundering.

Slowly, easing up into a more upright position in his saddle, Nick began to feel the pounding of each stride coursing through his body, and, tasting the blood from where he had bit into his lip as he rode, he knew that he had been feeling it for longer, but just had not acknowledged it.

Pushing his arm closer to his chest, Nick dallied the reins around the saddle horn, reached up with his now free hand, and struggled to untie his bandana as he rode. Gnashing his teeth together, he then pulled open the top of his shirt and awkwardly poked the dark blue cloth inside, holding it firmly against the still oozing cut across the high, right side of his chest, just under his collarbone.

Then, hoping it would stay in place long enough, he unbuttoned the middle of his coat and the shirt underneath, worked to ease his throbbing left arm inside to support it, and he eased his left hand up high enough across his chest to hold the cloth in place over the knife wound beneath his shirt.

Breathing a sigh of relief at the accomplished task, Nick reached down with his right hand, picked up Coco’s reins again, and concentrated once more on staying in front of the smaller, darker horse just to his right flank.

As they rode, Nick’s thoughts drifted back to the fight in the alley, and he wondered again why the blond, obviously capable of wielding the knife in a deadly fashion, had not better defended himself against his two attackers early on.

Once again, the question raised a hint of doubt and suspicion in Nick’s mind, but he shook it off just as forcefully.

Why would the younger man help him, only to become a latent threat?

And, he had, in the end, killed that man, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he stopped Nick from firing his gun and bringing the whole mob down on them?

“But, for that matter,” Nick wondered again, “Why did he help me to start with?”

Turning his head slightly, Nick saw only the intense focus in the features of the blond, as the younger man also turned his head, glancing back over his left shoulder, watching for any pursuit.

Their eyes caught as the blond turned back to face front, and the hurting hazel held on the battered blue-----though Nick did not notice the bleary, slightly unfocused eyes before the blond forced his attention to the road stretching out in front of them.

Continuing on in silence, the hoof beats slowed again after another two or three miles, as first one, then the other dropped from a controlled gallop to a lope, and eventually into a no-nonsense walk.

Nick’s head was starting to droop, his whole body fighting to remain upright in the saddle, as the throbbing of his arm made him grind his teeth together and groan every once in a while under his breath, with only Coco’s swiveling ears catching the sound.

After walking for over a mile, Nick felt the horse under him lift unbidden back into a rocking lope, keeping pace with the smaller animal now just to the front. Struggling to remain focused, Nick jerked his head back up, and worked to move with the liver chestnut, to not impede her now rested strides.

But, he knew he would not make it much further.

* * * * * * * *

Fighting the pull of the sleep-inducing rhythm of the train’s metal wheels flashing over the parallel rails of the tracks, Jarrod sat up straighter, staring out into the night. He shifted sideways slightly and removed his father’s beloved pocket watch from his vest, popped it open with his thumb, and turned it to better see the gold hands on its pristine, glass-encased white face in the limited light inside the sparsely inhabited car.

Just after two a.m.

Smiling softly to himself, he thought of how surprised his lovely mother was going to be in the morning, when she realized he had arrived home unexpectedly during the night.

Then, closing the watch, but not yet replacing it in his pocket, he fingered it lovingly, caressing the nicks and etchings in its warm, slightly soft gold surface. It had been a gift from his grandfather to his father, and at his father’s death, it had been the only thing, besides his father’s desk downstairs in the study, that Jarrod had lay claim to.

Though his parents had bought the land where the house now stood before branching out, Jarrod knew that the real foundation, early on, of the current Barkley fortune had been the gold mines his father had slowly purchased, the mines that were spread liberally across the foothills of the western slopes of the Sierra Nevadas. Those mines had produced the malleable metal, valued above all else by some men, much as this gold watch had been the focus of Jarrod’s desire. And, it was those mines that had backed the rest of their extensive land purchases and launched all of their other operations.

Leaning back in the padded, but increasingly uncomfortable seat, Jarrod thought about the mines, and how some of them, like the ones up at Strawberry and Tamarack, had been sold over the years, while others, like the ones at Midas and Lonesome, had been added. The last two were actually only partial acquisitions, with much of the stock in both now owned by shareholders and operated almost exclusively by separate companies, like Dutton Mining and Barkley-Sierra.

Shaking his head, Jarrod thought again of the trouble at the latter, knowing he and his family had a hard decision ahead of them. Looking down at the prized pocket watch once more, Jarrod remembered Audra’s question of a few nights ago. Hers had been more of a statement really, but, either way, in a family vote Jarrod knew she might stick to her original thought about selling out.

Then, he contemplated Nick’s angry response to the violence, his assertion that troops should be called out. And, he saw again his mother’s attention, drifting from the chess game she was losing, to concern about the status of what her husband had built and left behind for them, as she had asked how badly they stood to be hurt by the trouble.

In his mind, Jarrod glanced up to look at the picture hanging above the mantel, and he clenched the gold watch in his hand tightly, as he closed his eyes.

Knowing the trouble they might embrace, knowing the losses they could be forced to absorb, and knowing the calibre of man his father had been when he had bought into that mine, Jarrod wished with all his heart that he knew what his father would advise him, advise all of them, to do now.

With a deep sigh, and shifting uncomfortably again in the seat, he thought of the colorful stories his father had told him years before, of his trips up and down through the Sierras, talking to down-on-their-luck prospectors working individual claims, as well as men coming down off of a steady paycheck for building the railroad through the mountains, at the same time as he was looking for workers for the mines.

What had happened in the meantime, that had caused men, once eager to work for his father, to turn against the owners and operators of one of his mines in such a violent manner?

Or, Jarrod wondered, shaking his head again, had all of those original men moved on, to be replaced by others with no such loyalty to one man’s dreams?

* * * * * * * *

He was beginning to struggle, the battering he had taken last night, the blows suffered tonight, both layered solidly on top of the general fatigue and poor nutrition he had lived with during the last few, interminable months. All of it weighed heavily on his too-slight, too badly-chilled frame, now.

Shaking his head, Heath tried to clear it, but only succeeded in making things worse, as his head began to ache in earnest.

He looked back over his shoulder again, searching, with the help of the dim moonlight, the road behind them for pursuers.

Seeing none, Heath returned his eyes to the road in front and to the horse just to the left of him. Eyeing the man intently for a few moments, he wagered silently that the dark-haired rider might be able to make it that ten miles they had discussed, but no more.

Watching him, Heath could sense how at home the man generally must be in the saddle, but, he could also, despite the absence of more than a half moon of light off to their left, see the strain in his face, the set to his jaw, and the slightly stiff carriage of the man’s upper body as they galloped down the sloping, curving road.

The man was in pain.

Nodding to himself, Heath then spared a thought for the cut of the man that rode beside him, tearing reluctantly, out of his hardened heart, a tattered, and very begrudging, shred of respect for the way the dark-haired Barkley had handled himself both last night and this one.

With a start, he realized he had set his mind against the man two nights ago in the saloon, judging him just as harshly, without waiting to learn more about him, as Barkley had apparently assessed him. Knowing how angry he had been when the dark-haired man had concluded too much from the way Heath was dressed, from what he had perceived as Heath’s chosen profession, he was stunned now to realize that he had done the same thing himself.

Shaking his head, he mumbled into the dark, “Boy Howdy, Barkley, . . . ‘never thought ya’d teach me a thing or two ‘bout myself in the bargain.”

Then, closing his eyes for a brief moment, Heath shook his head harder, fighting the weariness and the aching of his body. As he opened them again, a few hoof beats later, he immediately saw the dark-haired man to his left falter slightly.

Reining his little mare closer to the larger, flaxen-maned horse, Heath reached out with his hand and grabbed a fistful of the thick tan coat, steadying the man beside him.

Attempting to focus him on continuing their journey, Heath deliberately sought to set fire to the unquenchable spark of pride he had already realized that the man carried deep inside.

“Didn’t think ya’d make it. . . that ten miles, Barkley,” he challenged, as if affirming his earlier suspicion, though his own voice faltered as the wind suddenly cut through him, chilling him to the marrow.

Noting that the man’s head had come up a fraction at his words, Heath took a deep breath and continued, “’Knew no soft, champagne-sippin’, . . . Barkley boss’d have the stayin’ power . . . ta ride that far with a busted arm.”

A moment later, Heath heard a mumbled reply.

“. . . ‘Show you soft, . . . . Boy,” Nick said through clenched teeth, willing himself to hang on, his legs gripping the horse beneath him and driving her forward.

Touching the little black mare with his heels to keep up, Heath grinned lop-sidedly and, though his eyes were shining at the comment, he abruptly shivered again in the wind and determinedly shrugged off the pounding headache that he had been wrestling with for miles.

Then, thinking of the place he’d come across when he had ridden this way while hunting about three weeks back, he began to watch for it or another suitable location away from the road to make camp.

To be continued…