Jasper Mountain (13 page)

Turtle was de finitely coming his way. And Jack was in the dubious position of representing a bunch of miners who didn’t trust him. What a mess. He rolled up the petition and put it in his bureau drawer, then reached down inside to find the strength to face what was coming, one disaster at a time. Duke began a frenzy of barking. He must not like turtles, either.

“Down, Duke!”

Duke trotted over to Jack. The knock came. Duke growled.

“Mr. Buchanan?” Turtle’s nasal voice came muffled through the door. “Shall I return another time?”

“No, hold on.” Jack patted Duke on the head and lowered his voice. “We can’t kill anyone today. Get over to your quilt and be a good boy.” Jack swung the door open and steeled himself. Turtle squinted through his spectacles into Jack’s cabin, paying close attention to the huge hound in the corner. “Is it safe to come in?”

“Absolutely.” Jack gestured for the man to enter. “Duke’s eaten lunch already. Can I offer you a libation, Mr. Barger?” Jack crossed the cabin to pull out a bottle and two glasses from his small cupboard. A shot made the perfect accompaniment to a man losing everything. “Genuine Kentucky bourbon,” Jack continued. “Care to join me?” He sat at the table and poured. “An officer of the mine is always welcome.” He lifted a glass and threw the drink down his throat. It burned the whole way.

“There is no need for sarcasm, Mr. Buchanan. And thank you, but no, to the offer of a drink. I never imbibe prior to evening hours.”

“Damned noble of you.” Jack picked up the glass he’d poured for Turtle and threw it back, too. It burned a little less. A man could get used to this stuff.

Turtle’s eyes slid over to the bed where Mouse slept. “What is the boy doing here? He should be on shift.”

Jack echoed his earlier confrontation with Stoop. “Mr. Barger, I suggest you mind your own damned business.”

Turtle gasped. When he spoke, his words were edged with ice. “Mr. Creely requests your presence. Not at his office. He awaits you at his manor.”

Jack sat back in his chair, wood scraping against his spine. So, the big man would do it himself. And how damned civilized, in his home. To take away Jack’s. Ironic, too. Jack leaned forward and poured another shot. Mr. Barger huffed and walked backward, keeping his eye on Duke. He tossed a disgusted glance at Mouse before he slammed the door. The dog laid his head on his paws and looked over to Jack with misery in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me that way, Dog. You can’t kill every ass in the world.” He retrieved the petition and sat back down. Stared at it. These miners, despite the threat of losing everything, were standing up for themselves. Asking for shorter workdays, more pay. Their list, their demands, their words were courage, plain and simple.

Jack downed the whiskey and looked over at Mouse, now asleep. He thought of the little boy riding a horse, giggling. Like little boys should.

Tom had found courage enough to make the document. The miners had possessed courage enough to sign it. Well, he’d find the courage to take it to Creely. No, more. He signed his name, his full name, Jack Horatio Buchanan Jr. to the petition and rose from his chair.

He didn’t want to keep Victor Creely waiting.

Creely Manor.

Although Jack had been in Jasper for months, he’d never received a summons until now. Set away from the road and perched on a rock ledge, the Gothic structure of impenetrable stone sat, imposing and ominous. A figure in the window moved away from slightly swaying lace curtains. Someone had watched Jack’s ascent up the road. Mrs. Creely? No one ever saw the woman. Victor claimed her frailty and illness kept her housebound. With the stronghold in front of him, Jack wondered if she really chose nonexistence over moving freely about.

The rock used to erect the fortress had been ripped from the core of the mountain. But the inside, Jack discovered when he crossed the threshold and nodded at the boy who opened the door for him, reveled in opulence. Marble floors, majestic spiral staircase, wood walls polished to a sheen, no expense was spared to build the palace. Yet, the place felt like a mausoleum. Cold. Hard.

The boy, dressed formally in a morning suit, led him into Victor Creely’s library. Around Jack towered shelf after shelf of books, leather-clad volumes punctuated by gold letters calling to him with a tempting chorus of titles. More books than a man could read in a lifetime covered the wall. Jack would give anything for a chance to try.

The miniature butler bowed slightly. “I’ll inform Mr. Creely you are waiting,” he said, his voice cracking. The kid looked odd, like a child playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. The fancy version of Mouse.

As the boy-butler backed out of the room to the rhythmic ticking of an ornate grandfather clock, Jack took stock of his surroundings, trying to quell his nerves. His presentation of the petition would sure add a touch of interest to the scenario Victor had planned. Mr. Creely hated surprises.

A stuffed peacock in the corner spread its colors, suspended for eternity in a mocking moment of life. Busts of philosophers and generals watched him with blank, sightless eyeballs, causing his neck to itch. The carpet beneath Jack’s boots told of exotic lands in a woven tapestry story. In the center of the room, like a guardian of rare treasures, sat an imposing mahogany desk.

He stepped closer to one of the walls of literature to see who populated the shelves. Shakespeare, Thoreau, and one of his personal favorites, Poe. Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Horatio Alger, Charles Dickens, Thomas Moore. Authors Jack loved, some he’d yet to read, all with whom he desired a close acquaintance.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Victor said, and Jack jumped. The exotic Persian carpet muffled the fall of his footsteps, and it seemed he’d just appeared in the room. “Imagine the intellect lining these walls. The ideas, philosophies, wisdom.” Victor’s eyes lingered over the books, then he turned back to Jack, his attention piercing like a drill bit.

“Very impressive, sir,” he agreed.

“Please, Jack, sit.” Victor gestured to chairs on the visitor’s side of the desk. “I trust you are well after this morning’s altercation?”

If Victor played a game, the concern in his eyes made no sense. He walked to the corner of the room to pull a silk cord, and for a second Jack thought he and his chair might drop through the floor into a dungeon. Instead, the child-butler appeared at the door.

“We’ll have tea, Jamie. And please, close the door behind you.”

“Sir,” the boy said, nodding.

To Jack’s surprise, Victor didn’t walk around the desk. Instead, he settled in the chair next to Jack, concern still in his expression. Victor’s demeanor didn’t make any sense. Jesus, this was a game. One where Jack wasn’t privy to the list of rules.

“Sir, I know you’re gonna sack me, so go ahead and get it over.”

Surprise. Something Jack had never seen on Victor’s controlled countenance. Then, a bigger shock. Victor burst into laughter. Even his eyes crinkled, his mirth genuine. “Why on this earth would I fire you?” Victor asked.

“You saw the fight.”

“You stood up for yourself. Didn’t let a drunken sot pick on you. I’ve been waiting to see the Buchanan spirit, and at long last, it finally emerged. I wondered how long I’d have to leave you down in the mine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you really think I’d bother to bring you all the way to

Jasper, consider your services payment of debt, if all I wanted was for you to serve as a dirt-hound? Really, Jack. You are hardly a half-wit.” His voice softened. “That fire really took its toll on you. I was there when you came into this world. Knew the curious boy. So bright, full of life, eager to take on any challenge, intellectual or physical. Quite a youngster.” He paused. “Quite frankly, I’ve been surprised at the man who came with me to Jasper. I never thought I’d see the son of Buck Buchanan so”—his lips pressed into a thin line—“damaged,” he finished. The word clutched Jack’s windpipe.

“Joellyn’s death. The demise of your ranch. These tragedies aren’t on your head, Jack. Somewhere inside, you know it, too.”

Surprised at the emotional ambush, a lump grew in the back of Jack’s throat. He tried to swallow it down and pull up a shield, but he wasn’t successful. Victor’s words just plain hurt.

“Jack, I love Buck dearly. He’s like a brother to me. But he is a stubborn bastard; you know that. And between us, hardly the embodiment of intellectual prowess. You knew, didn’t you? Knew you all should evacuate.” Victor paused and shook his head. “Buck didn’t listen to you, did he? If anyone’s to blame—”

“Here.” Jack pulled Tom’s petition from his pocket and thrust the papers out, the only way he could think to stop Victor’s words.

Victor took the sheaf and leaned back in his chair, his puzzlement giving way to a look of interest. “Ah,” Victor said. “I’ve heard about this petition.” He flipped through the pages. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Most marks are an ‘X.’ Men who can’t even sign their own names.” He flipped to the last page, eyes stopping on the last signature. Victor aimed a sharp look back to Jack.

Jack struggled to find his voice. “Do you think this has anything to do with Tom being missing?” he asked, nodding at the papers. Silence stretched, the only sound in the room the ticking grandfather clock.

Finally, a chuckle. “Whatever are you suggesting?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Creely. I’m just looking for some answers.”

“I doubt you’ll find any from this insignificant list of Xes. And your name? Did you add it because you thought I would fire you? Is this an attempt at retribution?”

Jack persisted. “Did you know anything about the petition before Tom disappeared?”

“Don’t you realize I sent you home today to protect you? I wanted to give you some room; let the tempers of those animals die down. Spare you any more humiliation. Although you aren’t grasping this, I’m on your side.” Victor rose, tossed the papers on the desk, and walked over to pull a book from the shelf. “Have you read Shakespeare?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Julius Caesar.
One of my favorites.” Victor looked pointedly at Jack. “A story of great betrayal.”

A sharp rap on the door caused Jack to jump. Victor didn’t flinch. “Enter.”

Jamie came in, barely able to carry the tray laden with china, silver, and food. It tipped precariously as he placed the tray on the desk. Silence stretched through the room. When Jamie left and closed the door behind him, Victor snapped the book shut and slammed it on the desk, causing Jack to jump again. He scrubbed his hand down his face. Lord, his nerves were rubbed raw.

Victor held up the petition, the stuffed peacock staring lifelessly over his shoulder. “For some reason, you believe this has some sort of meaning.” He tore the papers down the middle, and then tore them again. And again. He didn’t stop until he’d ripped the petition into bits that he tossed into the air. Jack watched the pieces flutter and land on the Persian carpet. Victor smiled. “There. Gone. Problem solved. And less complicated than killing a man, don’t you think?”

Heat flooded up Jack’s neck. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” Victor picked up
Julius Caesar
and replaced the volume in the wall of books. He spun around to face Jack. “Do you really think I’d kill a man over a piece of paper? One with no meaning? No point?”

“There is a point, sir, an important one. The miners are unhappy and growing more so by the day. Their lives are hell.”

Victor shrugged. “So? What do they expect? They are tunneling through rock with explosives, not peddling candy for a living.” Victor grabbed the back of the chair and leaned forward. “It’s hard work in the mines? Difficult? You don’t say? Who would ever imagine such a thing?”

“You haven’t worked down there, sir. The mine is worse than you can imagine.”

“They can always quit.”

“No they can’t!” The words exploded from Jack.

“Ah, yes. This is the only job they can do; I’m the only one who will hire them. They aren’t fit for anything else.”

Jack glared, his frustration straining against a wall of guilt. He worked to keep calm.

Victor continued. “A few rabble-rousers won’t change the fact that the miners are well paid and have decent jobs despite their momentous shortcomings.” He gestured to the bits of paper beneath his feet, eyes snapping with disgust. “They don’t even possess the ability to sign their own names. The cart mules I own are more intelligent than most of these men. Jasper Mine gives them the opportunity to make something of themselves.”

“Mr. Creely, if they’re so well paid, how is it they live like they do? Sharing beds at the Nugget Hotel? Some of them are so deep in debt at the company store they’ll never get ahead.”

“You’re a compassionate man, but you empathize with those who don’t deserve your concern. Where are the miners after every shift? What do they do with their precious earnings? Drink and gamble and whore. If they live poorly, it is their own fault.”

“Mr. Creely—”

“I can see you’re frustrated with the simplicities of your job. Men like us bore easily when left unchallenged. You have much too much potential to spend another moment blasting rock.” Victor smiled, just barely. “You are hereby promoted to shift boss.”