The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (9 page)

June, 1886

T
he Chinese vegetable seller toiled his way up Rossie Hill. His wares were balanced between two baskets strung from the ends of a stout pole, which he carried on his shoulders.

Standing on the covered porch of her neat bungalow, Emma watched his progress up the winding dirt road. She had hopes of buying some potatoes and greens, or even some early peas, for tonight’s dinner. Logan had invited Doc Kostandis to share their meal. She was looking forward to a visit with the old man. Two months after their marriage, he remained their steadfast friend.

Their
only
friend, Emma reminded herself.
The scandal of Billy John’s murder, as reported by Armitage, had made Logan a social pariah. And her own girlhood friends had grown increasingly distant, especially the ones who’d married miners. As the wife of a prosperous mine owner, she was no longer one of them. These days, when she passed them in town, they barely spoke to her.

As she waited for the Chinaman her hands smoothed the front of her apron. Underneath the flowered calico, the roundness of her belly had grown with each passing week. Emma calculated that she was about five months along. Recently she’d begun to notice tiny kicks and flutters as the baby moved in its protected world—Billy John’s baby, a lifetime reminder of the boy who’d died in her arms.

If only she had a photograph to show her child the image of its father. But as far as she knew, Billy John had never had his picture taken. Even in her own memory, his thin face, stringy brown hair and pale, sad eyes had begun to fade.

Emma had promised herself that she’d visit his grave once a week to lay wildflowers at the foot of the crude wooden marker. So far, she’d kept that promise. But with the changes in her body, the trek down Main Street to the far end
of town was becoming strenuous. Before long it would be too much for her.

The Chinaman had reached the foot of the steps. Picking up the basket she’d left on the porch, Emma came down to meet him. She selected a bunch of fresh, spring lettuce, a dozen winter potatoes and some onions. No peas yet—the small, wrinkled man shook his head when she asked. Maybe in two or three weeks. Fingers blurring, he figured the total on the abacus that hung on a string around his neck. Emma paid him a few coins, which he pocketed in his baggy jacket before continuing on his way.

The Chinese in the gulch below the hill grew thriving gardens in the little patches between their homes. The vegetables they sold, along with poultry and eggs, were an important source of livelihood to their little community. They also did laundry and toiled in the boardinghouses, but rarely, if ever, in the mines. The miners detested them to a man, and most refused to work in a mine where Chinese labored.

Chinese and women. To the superstitious miners who faced death every day, both brought the devil underground.

And everyone, miner or not, preferred to give the Chinese a wide berth. Until a few
weeks ago, residents of Rossie Hill had been forced to pass through the Chinese settlement to reach the main part of town. But now a newly finished bridge, painted red and sturdy enough to support a horse, passed over the huts and gardens to connect with Main Street. Schoolboys had found new sport in dropping eggs and rotten fruit onto the angry Chinese below.

Rossie Hill, which rose above the east side of town, was as close to a high-class neighborhood as Park City possessed. Most of the modest homes were occupied by mine and mill supervisors, members of the business community and owners of the newer mines. The wealthiest of the longer-established silver barons had decamped to Salt Lake City, where they lived like royalty in the sumptuous mansions their mines had built.

Logan and Emma rented the bungalow where they lived. With so many uncertainties looming, it hadn’t made sense to buy. It was no finer than the others; but for Emma the little house was a palace. She remembered the years at the boardinghouse, the yearning she’d felt as she gazed up at the homes on Rossie Hill, with their lace-curtained windows and sheltered porches. Now she had her own kitchen with a shiny black stove and all the pots, pans and
dishes she needed. She had her own parlor with store-bought furniture, curtains at the windows and a fine woolen rug on the floor. She had a bedroom with a pretty mirrored dresser and a bed where she slept warm at her husband’s side.

A blush crept into her cheeks at the thought of what went on in that bed. For the most part, her relationship with Logan had fallen into an edgy truce. He spent his days at the mine, while she cooked, kept house and used her new sewing machine to make clothes for herself and the baby. Over dinner each evening they chatted like polite strangers about the events of the day.

But at night they couldn’t get enough of each other’s bodies. He pleasured her in ways she’d never dreamed of, let alone imagined, leaving her to float into sleep, totally sated.

Was she happy? Emma knew better than to ask herself that question. She had security and a house full of nice possessions. But her promise still pulled at her. She owed revenge to Billy John, the man who had loved her. What, if anything, did she owe to Logan? Despite their physical intimacy, the man in her bed remained a mystery, and kept his secret side to himself. Apart from sex and the things his money could buy, Logan shared nothing with her.

It was as if he wore a polished mask to hide
his true face. She’d seen that face as he stood over Billy John’s body. She’d seen it at the trial when the jury declared him guilty of manslaughter.

Sooner or later Logan would show her that face again.

“Wonderful meal, Mrs. Devereaux.” Doc Kostandis took the last bite of his gravy-sopped buttermilk biscuit and dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. “I can’t remember when I’ve had such a tender pot roast.”

“I hope you saved room for dessert. We’ve got mince pie.” Emma rose from her chair to gather up the three dinner plates, whisking them off the table and onto the countertop.

Logan watched her as she bustled back and forth, taking pleasure in the glow of lamplight on her honey-gold hair. Emma was everything a man could ever want in a wife—beautiful, intelligent, industrious and passionate. By all appearances, she’d settled comfortably into her place by his side. But he knew better than to be taken in by her playacting. She was biding her time, waiting for her chance to strike.

Maybe it was just as well that Emma didn’t love him. As a husband, he was a rotten prospect—a man with a name he’d taken from a
cheap novel. A man who masked his feelings and never stopped looking over his shoulder. If she actually cared for him, the truth would break her heart.

His eyes traced the growing bulge beneath her skirt. The idea that he would soon become a parent was still sinking in. Providing for Emma’s needs had given him some satisfaction. But how would he handle caring for another man’s child? How would he feel the first time he held that child in his arms?

He was secretly hoping for a girl. A little girl would be easy to spoil and indulge. A boy might be harder, especially when the lad learned he was being raised by the man who’d killed his father.

Lord, there were so many uncertainties, so many questions that only time could answer.

“I’d say this is about the best mince pie I ever tasted.” Doc’s booming voice broke into his thoughts. “How about you, Logan? Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Of course. My wife’s a fine cook,” Logan murmured, catching her eye with a wink. She’d gone all out to make a nice meal tonight. But then she always did. Whatever she might be plotting, she was doing a bang-up job of maintaining
appearances until she could put her plan into effect.

After they finished their pie, Doc and Logan retired to the parlor for brandy and cigars while Emma remained in the kitchen to tidy up. Logan had offered to hire her some help, but she’d argued that she enjoyed doing her own housework. As her confinement approached, he might have to put his foot down. Emma was an independent woman. But he didn’t want her risking her health or the baby’s. He could never be a good husband. But he could at least live up to his responsibilities.

“How are things going at the mine?” Doc puffed on the cigar Logan had given him.

“Not bad, now that we’ve hit a good vein and the money’s coming in.” Logan had spent some sleepless nights worrying about the cash he’d borrowed to get the mine operating. But so far he’d managed to keep up the payments. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but the future looked promising.

“Any trouble with the hiring?”

“Not really. We couldn’t find any Cousin Jacks looking for work, but maybe that’s just as well because the old crew was mostly Irish. We managed to rehire a lot of them, along with a few Americans.”

“And Frank Helquist, is he working out all right?”

“Appears to be.” Logan had tracked down the former mine boss and rehired him. Helquist wasn’t what you’d call likable, but he seemed to know his job. “He rides the men pretty hard, but maybe that’s what it takes. Every blasted day I rediscover how much I have to learn about this business.” And his wife had been a great teacher, Logan reminded himself. Her knowledge of mining and miners had saved him from some embarrassing mistakes.

“Have you gone down in the cage?” Doc asked.

“A few times, for the experience. Looks like the pit of hell down there. Couldn’t even tell what I was seeing half the time. I don’t suppose you’ve ever mined, have you, Doc?”

“Not me.” The old dentist tapped his cigar on the rim of a porcelain ashtray. “I wouldn’t go down one of those black holes for anything, let alone three dollars a day. I’ve heard too much about what can happen down there—cave-ins, explosions, floods, fires, poison gas. And those are just the things that can kill you right off. The dust from all that drilling and blasting can get in a man’s lungs and eat them away till the
poor bastard coughs himself to death. Miner’s consumption, it’s called.”

Emma had mentioned men who’d been sickened, killed or crippled in mines, some of them good friends. Logan knew that to her, the issue was personal.

“Can’t anything be done to make mining safer?” he asked. Logan had known that mines were dangerous, but he hadn’t realized how dangerous until now.

“Safer?” Doc scowled. “Maybe in some ways. But extra safety measures cost money, and mining is a profit-based business. Who wants to waste money to lower the chance of accidents that might never happen? It’s the luck of the draw, and the men who go down in those mines know the risk.”

“That sounds mighty cold-blooded,” Logan observed.

“It is. But that’s the nature of the business. No man is forced to go down in those cages. They do it for the pay, which is damned good compared to what they could make topside. Remind yourself of that next time you catch yourself getting soft-hearted.”

Logan drained the brandy in his glass. The old man was right. Mining was a business, and he was in it to make a profit. If that meant turning
a blind eye to the danger, so be it, no matter how Emma might try to sway him. He couldn’t afford to be soft-hearted to his workers—or to his wife.

Emma dried a white china plate and stashed it in the cupboard. The door between the kitchen and the parlor had been left open, so she’d heard most of the conversation between Doc and her husband. It brought to mind a different conversation she’d had a week earlier.

The encounter had taken place on one of her errands to town. Now that the weather had warmed, Emma enjoyed getting out of the house. Logan had been right about the gossip. By now the two of them were old news. No one she met was overtly friendly, but the stares and pointing had long since ceased, and the wretched ballad was rarely sung. Even Hector Armitage, when she passed him on the street, did little more than smile and tip his bowler.

On this particular day she’d stopped by the general store for a tin of baking powder, some tea and a cake of lard. She’d filled her basket the rest of the way with some winter-stored Jonathan apples. Coming outside, she’d spotted a familiar figure slumped against the hitching rail.

She stopped short. “Eddie? Eddie McCoy? Is that you?”

The young man, who’d boarded at Vi’s and had brought her the news about Billy John, raised bloodshot eyes. Emma remembered the way his ready smile had broadened when he showed off a picture of the pretty girl waiting for him back in Kansas. He’d planned to work in the Westwood Mine for a year, saving enough money to buy a small parcel of land when he went home to marry her.

“When the year’s out, I plan to spend the rest of my life soakin’ up sunshine!” Emma recalled him saying. Now here he was, ragged, unshaven and so thin that Emma might not have recognized him except for his thatch of carrot-red hair.

“Miss Emma. You look right fine.” His mouth managed a weak smile. What had happened to the lighthearted boy she remembered?

Then she saw the crutch propped under his arm.

“Big hunk o’ rock came loose out of the ceiling. Crushed my leg.” He answered her unspoken question. “Doctor tried to save it, but it wasn’t no use.” He glanced down. Emma’s gaze followed his to the trouser leg that was rolled
and pinned shut below the knee. She bit back a cry, knowing he wouldn’t want pity.

“Guess I won’t be goin’ back to Kansas,” he said. “Money’s gone, I can’t work, and I wouldn’t ask my girl to take a one-legged beggar like me for a husband.”

“What will you do?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Reckon I’ll just have to figure that out.”

Emma had emptied her pocketbook and pressed the money on him, wishing it was more. She’d also given him the apples, which he’d stuffed into the pockets of his old canvas jacket. The next day, when she’d returned with some biscuits and cheese in a flour sack, he was nowhere to be found.

Logan had been preoccupied with business at the mine, so Emma hadn’t bothered to mention the encounter to him. In the days that followed it had receded in her memory. But the injustice of it had festered there, like a deep splinter.

Doc’s advice to Logan had brought the matter back to her attention. Every mishap in the depths of a mine affected people’s lives. In Eddie’s case, a falling rock had shattered his dreams. He would never walk on his own two
legs again, nor would he likely farm his own land or marry his sweetheart.