Strong and Stubborn (6 page)

Her sensible gray dress used no ploys to play up feminine curves, but to Mike's eyes that enhanced the woman even more. Her skin was as pale and fine as smooth-sanded birch and all the more striking given her hair. That single streak of white racing through the dark tresses showed her singularity. Mike instantly knew she belonged to the incredible voice he'd heard before.

And in the same instant he knew a fierce joy that she wasn't the one cradled so protectively in the other man's arms. At some point, after he'd helped find her friends, he'd ask around to see whether the striking beauty was spoken for. But for now he needed to offer assistance and not a distraction from the task at hand.

“Came in on the train.” He gave a nod of acknowledgment to the other man and received one in return. “What can I do to help?”

“My cousin looks to be trapped in the cave-in.” The beauty studied him, seeming to measure his strength. “If you're willing, we'd be grateful for your help—though it may prove dangerous.”

“I'm willing.” Mike knew he'd be willing to do more for this woman than to dig out a collapsed mine tunnel but knew better than to say so. A few times in his life he'd summed up people within moments of their meeting. Without fail, he'd found his initial judgment eerily accurate. At least this time it was favorable.

“In that case,”—the slender girl took a loop of rope from her waist and handed him a rucksack—“I'll go fetch Mr. Lawson. You and Granger will make more headway than I could manage in his place.” With that she trotted off, leaving Mike to follow “Granger” as he led them out of town and toward the ominously sagging mountainside.

Under normal circumstances, Naomi would be hesitant to accept a handsome stranger into their midst without thorough questioning.

Of course, she thought, suppressing a mild twinge of panic, it had been so long since she'd found herself in “normal” circumstances that catastrophes seemed more the usual way of things.

So here she stood, blatantly eyeing a strange man—who happened to be more than average in the looks department—and deciding that he looked fit enough to heft large boulders.
Splendidly fit
.

Naomi squashed the thought, accepted the stranger's offer of help, and set about agreeing with Cora. As much as she loved her friends, Evie or Cora should go fetch Lawson. Granger and the stranger—she fought back an absurd giggle at the phrase, knowing hysteria could manifest in inappropriate levity—were the only two here whose physical strength could start moving the mountainside.

There was no question of Naomi fetching Mr. Lawson herself. She hadn't already headed for the mines because she stood precious little chance of accomplishing anything alone. Her running ahead would only pull attention away from the task at hand, and everyone needed to focus on finding Lacey.

Alive
, Naomi prayed.
Please, Lord, let Lacey still be alive
.

“Are you the kind of folks who'd want to pray before we head out?” Quiet words, spoken low but clear. The stranger knew how to command attention without distracting from the current crisis.

Of course, the others just stared at the man without answering. Naomi couldn't tell whether they were surprised and touched by the offer or abashed no one had suggested praying before now. It didn't much matter. At this point Naomi could only be grateful.

“Yes, Mr… .” She trailed off at the sudden realization none of them knew his name. A forgivable oversight, given the circumstances … but awkward nevertheless. “Thank you for offering.”

“Strode.” The stranger shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other. “Michael Strode, and I'd be honored to pray with you.”

Naomi registered the newcomer's surprise as she reached out and twined hands with Cora. Cora linked with Evie, who held on to Jake Granger, who shrugged and held out his hand to Mr. Strode at the same moment Naomi reached out to close the circle. The stranger hesitated a heartbeat before joining them. His hand surrounded hers, as warm and strong and comforting as the words he began to speak.

His prayer washed over them all, a plea for the lives of those in the mines, an offering of thanks for the Lord's provision, a request for the strength to face what was to come. But most of all, the low words became a reminder that they weren't alone.

If asked, Naomi wouldn't be able to repeat a single sentence of it. She didn't need to. It was enough to take part in the asking and offering of comfort and protection. Somehow, prayer blunted the thin edge of panic and steadied the flickering flame of Naomi's hope.

“Thank you, Mr. Strode.” She remembered herself just in time and restrained from the impulse to give his hand a grateful squeeze.

“You're welcome, miss.” A brief smile graced his black-stubbled jaw before he turned his attention to Granger. “I see shovels already, but do you have any lamp helmets? Pickaxes?”

“This way.” Naomi headed off and didn't look back to see whether or not they followed her to the mercantile. If they didn't, she'd just grab what they needed and hoof it up the hill behind them. So long as she hurried, they wouldn't lose any more time, and she wouldn't feel the gnawing sense that time was running out.

The tinkle of Lacey's customer bell when Naomi opened the mercantile door sounded more like an abbreviated lament than a cheerful welcome. Even so, she couldn't help but be grateful Lacey had recently come into the shop and set everything to rights.

When she considered the condition in which they'd found this store—boxes and crates stacked higgledy-piggledy, coated with a thick layer of grit and no clue as to their contents—Naomi breathed a prayer of thanks. If Lacey hadn't whirled into the shop and set everything to rights, they wouldn't have a prayer of finding things.

As things stood, Naomi veered left as soon as she entered the door, heading for the wall of tools. She reached for a pickax, only to have a strong arm reach farther, faster, and snatch it from her grasp. An unfamiliar prickle of awareness told her it was the stranger, but Naomi didn't tilt her head back to make sure.

With the men grabbing the pickaxes, she ducked away and made a beeline for the back counter. Behind the rear counter, she slid through the door to the storeroom. Tucked in here, she knew, Lacey stashed anything and everything originally intended to help outfit the Hope Falls mines. With the mines closed and the town now slated to become a lumber mill, the mercantile wouldn't see much business for the strange paraphernalia used solely by miners.

When she didn't immediately spot what she needed, Naomi began eyeing the crates and boxes stacked in the farthest corner. Knowing Lacey's penchant for order, she would have placed heavy items at the bottom to support the lighter or more fragile goods. In a matter of seconds, Naomi had pried open two boxes.

One held what looked to be small machine parts, and she set it aside. The second held small bottles of Sunshine Lamp Oil, which she kept close at hand. The next crate, with
Sunshine Lamps
thoughtfully stamped along the wooden slats, defeated her. She set it aside as requiring a crowbar and reached for the next box. The sound of the crate being moved farther away made her jump.

A startled glance showed the stranger, Michael Something-or-other, scooting the crate for another few inches of clearance. Without a word, the man hunkered down and began working at the tacks with the tines of a hammer. Naomi watched for a moment before realizing that, at this pace, he'd not only have the lamps out of the crate by the time she unearthed the helmets, he'd have them filled with the Sunshine Oil she'd found mere moments ago.

With renewed vigor, she shoved open the box before her, relieved to see what looked like overgrown brown raisins. Once picked up and shaken out, the wrinkled leather took the form of stiff, close-fitting skull caps with a narrow pocket sewn to double thickness along the front seam. Naomi's triumph at finding the helmets darkened to dismay. Yes, this was what she was looking for—she remembered from almost a year ago, when Braden demonstrated how the lamp's long metal prongs tucked into the narrow openings.

But while these caps would hold the teapot-shaped lamps emerging from the now-opened crate, they would only provide light. With such flimsy head-coverings, was it any wonder so many of Braden's miners had perished in the first collapse? The contraptions offered absolutely no protection from falling rocks.

And Lacey doesn't even have one of these
. A small round stain darkened the leather between her fingertips, and Naomi realized she was crying. She gulped in a shuddering breath and rose to her feet.

Feelings interfere with getting things done, and emotions cloud judgment
, she reminded herself. Today she could afford neither.

M
ike heard the other man—Granger—and woman rummaging about in the front of the store. When he'd seen the husky-voiced beauty slip around the back counter and through a door, his feet followed before he made the decision to go after her. Propriety, he knew, would have stopped him before he went through the door.

Mike smiled at the thought and kept right on walking. After all, he'd left propriety—along with the other inconveniences in his life—a few thousand miles behind him.
Why not enjoy the freedom?

Besides, it seemed to Mike that while the other man bore the trademark signs of a leader, the quietly determined woman looked like she knew where she was going. Mike decided he liked her initiative—and her productivity. In the mere moments it took for him to catch up with her in the storeroom, she'd already begun sorting through a heap of boxes and crates in the far corner. As he watched, she shook her head and nudged a box to the side—out of her way—and kept on.

Mike grabbed a hammer from a nearby shelf and squatted down to lend a hand with the crate she'd just abandoned. Its tacked-down top would have taken too much time away from finishing her hunt. He pulled the thing closer, making the move louder than necessary in case she didn't already know he'd come into the room behind her.

She hadn't. A small jump tattled that he'd startled her, even before her wide-eyed glance confirmed it.
Green
. Mike hadn't realized until then that he'd wanted to know the color of her eyes. Such an unimportant detail in the midst of a mission, but in that moment it hit him hard. He'd never thought about it before, but it seemed he must've thought of green as a cool color. How else to explain his surprise at the warmth of this woman's gaze?

She'd turned back around and resumed working while he sat there like a fool, pondering the color of her eyes. So Mike made up for it by working his fastest. He didn't look up at her again until he'd opened the crate and unwrapped all of the teapot-shaped Sunshine Oil Lamps, which were to be fitted into leather mining caps.

A quick peek showed her still facing forward. Doubt speared him—what if they were unable to find the caps after all? They would have wasted all this time fumbling in a storeroom when they could have been helping scout out the mines or unblock passages!

If they were on a wild goose chase, he'd need to redirect their efforts to where they could do the most good. Mike craned his neck, trying to look over her shoulder without attracting her notice. The stack of goods seemed to have diminished somewhat, and he noticed the first box he'd seen at her side happened to be the oil for the lamps he'd finished unearthing … two parts of a three-piece puzzle.

And there, almost blocked by her bent form, stood the missing item. Creased and pressed into a box for who knows how long, the leather looked more like bark than hoods. Even so, their very necessity made them beautiful. Mike reached for one, only to pull back when he saw she already held a cap.
Then why had she stopped?

As he watched, a drop of darkness wet the leather in her hands. Understanding dawned. Her sudden stillness meant she was crying. Or, he realized when her shoulders stiffened with resolve and she returned the cap to the box, she was trying not to.

Something clenched behind his rib cage, powerful enough to make him pause.
She shouldn't have to cry
, his instincts clamored.
And she shouldn't have to stop or hide her tears if she wants to cry
. Mike cupped his hand beneath her elbow and raised her to her feet.

“Let's go tear that mountain apart.” Without waiting for her response, he dumped the oil lamps back in the crate, slammed the now-loosened lid back on it, and plunked the box of oil on top. Mike reached for the box of leather hoods, only to come up empty.

The woman—it began bothering him that he had no name for her, but right now it felt too awkward to ask—finished slipping the last cap into a large canvas bag, which she then slung over her shoulder. With coils of rope looped over her other shoulder and around her waist, she looked like a prim adventuress.

And if such a thing hadn't existed before now, in Mike's humble opinion, it was a terrible oversight. Since it wasn't his place to say so—
yet
, a small, determined part of his mind insisted—he snagged the pickax he'd grabbed earlier, hefted the stack of lamps and oil, and followed her surprisingly swift march out the door.