The Union (10 page)

"Don't pretend with me. Down at the union hall I heard all about your escapades."

"News travels fast." He didn't look happy.

"Around here, it has wings." She walked to his bedside and sat down beside him, being careful not to rock his wound. "You shouldn't have gone out after him. You could have been killed." Why did her voice have to go and crack on her? How often she'd wished for a stoic, placid demeanor. But she'd never been able to manage it. Why did she always succeed in giving every piece of herself away?

McCullough must have seen her worry and concern. He reached out to her and rested his hand on her arm. There was something magnetic about his touch, about him. She felt it the first time she saw him, the purely physical pull between them. Never, never had she known anything like it before. She hoped this fascinating attraction between them would last forever. But why did she think such thoughts now? Being near him rattled her, including her thinking. She covered McCullough's hand with her own and pressed it against herself, trying to ignore its warm, strong presence. He was fine. He would recover. Lush, potent relief washed over her, filling her eyes with moisture.

"The fools shouldn't have fired." McCullough paused to look up at her.

Giving herself away again. Why did he have to catch her blinking away tears?

"I'm all right, Keely. It's just a flesh wound. It'll be healed up fine as you please by next week." He grinned. "At least that's what the doc tells me."

She didn't speak for fear of revealing more of the depth of her feelings for McCullough. He must have mistaken her expression for scrutiny. He looked suddenly guilty. Neither spoke, though McCullough looked thoughtful, like he was measuring his words ahead of time.

"I planned this escapade, as you called it, Keely. You know that."

Her heart thudded in her ears. "I knew you were involved."

"I
planned
it, Keely. The injuries, the violence, are on my head."
 

What could she say? She nodded, mute. She had expected him to take charge.

"I had a standing order—no shooting. But the train surprised them. The men lost their heads—"

"I'm not blaming you."

His grip on her arm tightened. "Maybe you should."

"Yes, maybe I should." She wished she could have photographed the surprised look he gave her. "But not for that. For your own carelessness." She wiped at her eyes with the sides of her fingers, hoping he wouldn't notice. But of course he did. What else could she be doing but wiping away tears? Suddenly, she didn't care if he did see. Maybe it was best if he knew where she stood. "You're all I have, Ian McCullough."

She didn't understand the look he gave her. Was it surprise? Wonder? Fear? Guilt? Whatever it was, it seemed genuine. But not what she wanted to see.

He cleared his throat. She released his hand and he dropped it back by his side.

"I mean that, McCullough. I won't have you up and dying on me. I refuse to be a widow before I'm even married."

This time, as fleeting as his expression was, she saw the emotion. Guilt, clearly guilt. Why? Well, whatever it was for, maybe it was time he felt guilty, time he understood. "I won't be the pity case of the community again. Not like after Michael. I'll die if I have to endure the silent, embarrassed glances of friends. The shuffling of feet, the downward looks. The out and out uncomfortable feeling of being some kind of pariah because tragedy struck." She took a breath. "Because everyone knows that next time it could be them, and no one knows what to do about it or what to say.

"I won't be rescued again by the likes of Lunn Gaffney—" The look on McCullough's face stopped her mid-sentence.

"Gaffney?"

"Never mind." Oh, blast her rash tongue!

"What about Gaffney? Rescued by him how?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But we haven't discussed Michael's death yet. Don't you think we should?"

"Not now. We're discussing marriage. You're going to marry me, McCullough. Alive and kicking. When you've healed, maybe sooner. I'm an impatient woman." After today's scare, more impatient than ever. Blast him, she'd just set a time. She nodded to herself. "Next week. If we have to drive to Coeur d'Alene to do it."

"Yes, ma'am."

His contrite tone and bright grin brought back her sense of humor. If she put herself at a distance, scolding a wounded man about dying held a certain humor. It certainly wouldn't help him recover. She laughed. "That's settled then. What do you need? Can I get you anything?"

"You mean to ease the pain?"

"Exactly."

"Nothing. Nothing but time can do that. But you can distract me. Keep me company."

"I thought I was."

He eased back off his elbow onto the pillow, looking suddenly weary and pale. "Is that what you call it? Sounded more like scolding to me."

"You're tired. It looks like what you mostly need is rest."

"No. I'll just lie here hurting. I need your company to distract me, Keely. But I need you like I know you. I need the kind of companionship you've given me these last years." He laughed. "One sided."

"Like you know me?"
 

"Read me your letters, Keely." His voice sounded weak. "There is a bundle of them in the drawer of the bedside table. Get them and read them." He adjusted his position and closed his eyes. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He’d overexerted himself. "I need to know you."

"How do you mean?" She couldn't figure him out. What did he mean? Know her how?

He smiled weakly. "Inflection is everything, Keely. I read the words you wrote with my own voice. Now read them to me as you meant them."

Her eyes clouded over again. What a sentimental fool she was. She never suspected McCullough as being the same. She unfolded the first letter and began reading. She read the first, and the second, and began the third. "Dear McCullough—"

"Pardon the interruption." He sounded sleepy. "You never called me Ian. Why not?"

It seemed a strange question. "No one ever calls you Ian. At least that's what Michael said. I didn't think you'd like it."

"Maybe I would, from you."

"Maybe I will. When the time is right."

He chuckled. "You're something, Keely."

"That I knew. If you're only discovering that, then you are getting to know me better."

"I am. For one thing you're an awful good reader."

She laughed. "That's not what I meant."

"Me, either." He sighed.
 

"You're tired now. You need sleep and I've got to get supper on." She set the letter down and stood. "I'll come read to you later when I bring up a tray of supper."

"I look forward to it."

"I hope so. When I come, I'll bring the letters you wrote me." She liked the surprised look he gave her. "You're not the only sentimental one, McCullough. I'll bring them and read them to you, so you can see how I view you. Later, when you've recovered some, you can read them to me."

Dietz woke slowly, gently lifting to consciousness from the foggy haze of sleep, almost fighting it. He glanced at the clock with one eye. Two hours had passed since Keely had sat with him. He sat up slowly, favoring his shoulder. It must be getting near to supper time. He heard shuffling in the rooms around his. The men were home for that brief interval between afternoon card playing and evening carousing. Downstairs he heard pots and pans clanging together and pictured Keely hard at work cooking, lugging the heavy pans, perspiration spotting her forehead, flour covering her apron. A woman that pretty shouldn't have to work so hard—

Shoot, why should he think that? Thoughts of Keely made him soft in the head. Damn, had he promised to marry her? Their conversation came flooding back with harsh clarity. She disturbed him, in more ways than he cared to count. How could he marry her? His boss would have his ass. Never involve more people than necessary and never become entangled in messy affairs.

It was one thing to roll in the hay with various and assorted ladies of the night, even to engage their sympathy and affection. An agent could court any number of desperate, hard women as he had in the past, to gain important information. But marrying an innocent under an alias? He had few scruples, but this? Being around Keely was robbing him of his edge.

He couldn't marry her, but her words haunted him.
You're all I have, Ian McCullough.
But he was
not
Ian McCullough. What was she to him? Yet he couldn't push the thought or her expression from his mind. Added to it, he couldn't afford to lose his cover. How could he explain not marrying her? Now if she didn't want to marry him—

Someone banged and clanked up the stairs. From the sound of the movements, Dietz knew whoever it was, had to be drunk. He shook his head. Trouble hovered over town. With too little to do and too much time on their hands, the men turned to drink and cards, and plotting against the Mine Owners Association. It wouldn't be long in erupting. The question—how long?

He needed a little time. He should be out drinking and carousing with the miners, operating in the usual way. Being their friend, gaining their confidence, and hearing their confidences. Being supposedly committed stifled him and his detective methods. Suddenly, Dietz smiled. What if Keely refused him, turned him out? A little too much drink consumed too often, too many flirtations with too many women. Shouldn't be hard. Shouldn't be too different than the real McCullough. What a perfect plan. No one would think anything about a girl changing her mind once she finally met her mail-order fiancé. Especially if he turned out to be a rascal, a no good. No one at all. She would come out of the whole mess looking downright honorable, and what did he care how he looked? Still, her words and the hope she assigned to McCullough niggled at him. But it didn't change his mind. He had to pick a fight with Keely, and he had to do it soon.

He sat up, and winced. Wounded. Blasted nuisance. Fortunately, the bullet had caught his left shoulder, not his right. He peeled back the dressing the doctor had applied earlier and stared at the oozing injury. Clear. Didn't look infected. Something bothered him, stirring in him a dim memory, almost from his shady dreams. Had he dreamed of the attempted train heist? Memories came from somewhere. The sting, like the bite of an angry wasp. Slapping at the bullet wound with his right hand. Nearly dropping the man he carried.
 

He replayed the scene in his mind. The smart of the bullet, nearly dropping the man, being afraid the man would bang his head and fall into the rocky basalt below or get shot again. Turning sideways to the fire to make himself a thinner target and protect his chest. Worried about his own gun arm. Turn around Dietz, you fool. Angle the left shoulder downhill, not the right. Left shoulder hit.

Realization swept over him. He shivered in the heat of the evening. He'd been shot from uphill, by a miner, friendly fire. Or had it been intentional?

The sound of bells ringing startled Keely from her thoughts of McCullough as she cleared the supper dishes away. She needed to prepare a tray of food to take up to him, and she would bring the letters to read to him. His grin, his easy consent to marry next week, all danced through her thoughts. The ferocious clanking of bells grew louder, shrinking away the happy swell of her heart over such thoughts, and replacing it with the rapid pulse of fear. She'd heard the bells too many times before to imagine they meant any good. She set down the plate she held and went to the window to watch as the last of her boarders spilled from the kitchen out into the street, joining the vicious swarm of drunk, rowdy men that formed, weaving toward the Gem Union Hall across the street and two buildings over.

She took off her apron, folded it, and set it on the table. The men craved revenge, in any form, for the foiled attempt on the train. During supper, her boarders talked of nothing else around the table. She shuddered.

The bells. Blast the bells. A bell ringer in the street caught her eye and smiled at her, giving an emphatic shake to the bell he carried, tipping his hat with his free hand. She turned away. The bells summoned the people to the union hall, ostensibly for a citizens' meeting. In reality, they summoned the miners to a meeting of the general assembly. Everyone knew the game. Not a single woman marched with the crowd in the street. Only union members would be permitted into the hall, and the whole meeting would be a sham. Nothing more.

The special council must have met already, probably at J.H. Johnson's saloon, like they always did. She bit her lip. She hadn't heard any mention that President O'Brien was in town. He alone could reason with the men when their ire flew up. Oh, she prayed he had arrived in town. The Special Council would have set the agenda in their meeting earlier. Eloquent men who knew how to turn a phrase, the union leaders never encountered trouble convincing the men that some scab or other needed to be run out of town, which was what these meetings always preceded. But who, who was left? Her thoughts raced frantically.

During the winter months, many scab families still resided in the Valley. The meetings had become routine, nearly monotonous. Keely had little sympathy for scabs. They didn't deserve to be working, earning the same wages as union men who fought to get those wages. And any man who would settle his family in the heart of the battle and unrest was a bigger fool than deserved a family. But that didn't give union men the right to use violence to achieve their goals.