Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO TURNED THE KEY
“Yes.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
Jeb placed the knife down.
“Why?”
He said nothing.
“Eight hundred and twelve people.”
“I know the number.”
“You locked them inside.”
“Yes.”
She slapped him.
He accepted it.
Again.
This time she wished he would become angry.
Defend himself.
Give her somewhere to put her rage.
Instead he said, “There was typhus underground.”
“You told me.”
“It wasn’t typhus.”
Clara stopped.
“What?”
“Smallpox.”
The word changed the room.
“They had deliberately infected workers?”
“No.”
Jeb rubbed both hands over his face.
“One man came from a camp in Idaho. By the time I recognized it, dozens were sick.”
“And you locked them in.”
“The company ordered the mine sealed.”
“You obeyed?”
“I had two choices.”
“There are always more than two.”
“I was twenty-seven.”
“So?”
“So I was afraid.”
Finally.
Not justification.
Confession.
Jeb looked at her.
“The company superintendent said if the infected workers reached town, thousands would die. Margaret was underground treating them.”
His voice began to break.
“I had the key.”
Clara said nothing.
“She told me to lock it.”
That hurt differently.
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“She told you?”
“She knew.”
His eyes were wet now.
“The miners were already rioting. Healthy workers were trying to climb out. Margaret stood behind the gate.”
Jeb stared into a place seventeen years away.
“She told me there were children in town. Families. She said if I loved her, I would close it.”
Clara could almost see him.
Young.
Terrified.
His wife behind iron.
A town behind him.
No good choice.
“So you did.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“The company promised to return with doctors and supplies.”
“They didn’t.”
“No.”
Jeb’s voice became almost inaudible.
“They poured blasting powder into the entrance.”
Clara understood.
“They buried them.”
“Yes.”
“You tried to stop it.”
“They chained me to the tree.”
That part had been true.
He had not been chained while the door was closed.
He had been chained afterward.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because ‘I locked eight hundred people underground’ is difficult to improve with context.”
Despite herself, Clara almost laughed.
Instead she cried.
Jeb watched.
Didn’t touch her.
Finally Clara crossed the room herself.
She put her arms around him.
Jeb became stone.
“Clara.”
“Be quiet.”
“I don’t deserve—”
“I did not say I forgive you.”
His breath caught.
“I said be quiet.”
Slowly, uncertainly, his arms moved around her.
He held her as though she were something wild that might flee if his grip became too tight.
Clara rested her cheek against his chest.
His heart hammered.
The terrifying mountain man was afraid.
Of her.
That was strangely comforting.
Then he whispered, “You should leave.”
“No.”
“You know what I did.”
“Yes.”
“You should hate me.”
“I’m considering it.”
He almost laughed.
She pulled back.
“But I decide what I do.”
Jeb looked at her.
“Not Wyatt. Not Silas. Not you.”
She touched the scar on his hand.
“And if you ever decide for me because you think you know better?”
“What happens?”
“I own several iron skillets.”
His mouth moved.
There.
The smile.
Fully this time.
It changed his entire face.
Clara stared.
Jeb stopped smiling.
“What?”
“You should do that more often.”
“Threaten you?”
“No.”
He understood.
Looked away.
Blushed.
The giant actually blushed.
Clara discovered she liked this far too much.
Their plan for the Sovereign became ridiculous.
Therefore it had a chance.
Clara would board as temporary kitchen staff when the train stopped in Bitter Creek.
Bell would board disguised as a railway inspector.
Jeb would remain outside and intercept the train if anything failed.
“How do you intercept a train?” Clara asked.
“Dynamite.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I will be on it.”
“Good point.”
“You needed me to explain that?”
“I’m adjusting to partnership.”
She looked at him.
“That sounded suspiciously healthy.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
The night before the train arrived, Clara could not sleep.
She found Jeb outside.
Snow had begun falling.
He sat on the porch.
She joined him.
“What will you do after?” she asked.
“After what?”
“If we expose them.”
He looked toward the mountains.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve spent seventeen years punishing yourself.”
“I live here.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at her.
“What will you do?”
“San Francisco, perhaps.”
The answer hurt unexpectedly.
His face showed nothing.
“Good place.”
“You’ve been?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you have. Were you also a sea captain?”
“No.”
“Concert pianist?”
A pause.
Clara stared.
“You were.”
“My mother insisted.”
She laughed so hard she nearly fell from the porch.
Jeb looked offended.
“You have a piano!”
“I don’t play anymore.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“That means an enormous reason.”
He looked away.
Clara stood.
“Come.”
“No.”
“Jeb.”
“No.”
She dragged him inside.
Or attempted to.
He was essentially a building.
Eventually he followed because resisting her required more energy than surrender.
He uncovered the piano.
Dust floated.
Jeb sat.
For a long time, nothing happened.
Then his hands touched the keys.
Music filled the cabin.
Not frontier music.
Something aching and European.
Clara stood perfectly still.
The rough trapper disappeared.
Jacob Laurent returned.
Doctor.
Husband.
Musician.
Man.
When he finished, Clara had tears on her cheeks.
“That was terrible,” she whispered.
Jeb looked alarmed.
“What?”
“Now I find you interesting.”
He laughed.
She kissed him.
It surprised both of them.
One soft kiss.
Jeb did not move.
Clara stepped back.
“Say something.”
“You kissed me.”
“Your diagnostic abilities remain excellent, Doctor.”
“You shouldn’t.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He corrected himself.
“I mean—”
“Careful.”
“I would like you to do it again.”
“Better.”
She did.
The second kiss lasted longer.
Then Jeb pulled away.
Not rejection.
Restraint.
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“If we survive—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“Why?”
“Because people in stories always say things like that immediately before getting shot.”
Jeb stared.
“What stories?”
“Bad ones.”
He smiled.
Then someone knocked on the cabin door.
Three times.
They froze.
Nobody should have been within twenty miles.
Jeb reached for his rifle.
“Who is it?”
A woman answered.
“Margaret Lawson.”
Jeb dropped the rifle.
May you like
Clara stopped breathing.
His dead wife was standing outside.
