under the overhang.
Clay saw her settle under a blanket, with the rounded bowler hat still covering her head. The lantern light went out. Up to now, he’d been puzzled why anyone might prefer to sleep with their hat on, the brim squashed against the ground, but now he understood she needed to hide her long, glossy hair from prying eyes.
For another hour, Clay labored, grappling with his thoughts, trying to decide on the right course of action, as well as attempting to drive his body into exhaustion, so he could overcome the needs that the sight of the half-naked girl had jolted into life.
Only when he felt certain she would be asleep did Clay cease his pounding. He stopped for a quick wash at the water barrel. Seeing his reflection in the mirror, he ran his palm over the stubble on his jaw.
Not pausing to consider the merits of the idea, he scooped fresh water into the enamel bowl and spread a thick layer of soap over the lower half of his face. He pulled out the knife tucked into his boot and scraped away the week-old beard.
By now, the moon had risen. He put out the flame in the lantern and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When he could make out the layout within the cavern, he eased over, keeping his footsteps silent.
He sat down, pulled out the gun tucked into his waistband, checked the load and laid the weapon down within an easy reach. Without a sound, he took off his hat and wrapped into a blanket. Then he rolled onto his side and let his gaze rest on the small shape next to him.
A man like him had little chance to meet decent girls. Up to now, those encounters had been limited to exchanging a few words with a girl working in a store or serving food in an eating house. And he’d never slept with a woman before. His only experience of closeness had been a few tumbles in a whore’s bed. And now a girl lay beside him. A beautiful girl, with milky-white skin and hair as black as midnight and sleeker than an otter’s pelt.
If he reached out, he could touch her. And he wanted to, so much it hurt. If nothing else, he wanted to simply rest his fingertips on her shoulder, to prove that she really existed, that there really was a lovely girl sleeping right beside him.
The willpower Clay had to exert to resist the longing told him what he had to do: he must take the girl back to the railroad. As soon as he could, he had to find some means to help her continue on her journey.
If he let her stay, not only would there be trouble when Mr. Hicks found out, but a month was long enough to start caring about another person. He didn’t want to let her crack his emotions wide open and wriggle her way into his heart, only to rip it out and take it with her when she left.
It had been bad enough when Lee and Billy died. If he became attached to this girl, it would be a thousand times worse when he found himself alone again. There was only one solution. The scrawny kid who was a girl had to go.
* * *
Despite the bright morning sun, Annabel woke up shivering with cold. Beneath her hat her coiled hair covered her scalp like a damp cap. Next time, she would have to wash her hair in the morning, to allow it time to dry. At least the blisters on her palms no longer hurt and her muscles ached only when she made a sudden move.
She looked around the cavern. The men and animals were gone. She lifted her arms in a lazy stretch, then stilled as the world outside exploded into a cacophony of noises—crashing and grating and the clanking of iron chains.
Startled, even a little frightened, Annabel lowered her arms. Making haste, she pulled on her boots and went outside, driven by curiosity and alarm as much as by hunger and thirst and other physical needs.
On the far side of the clearing, she could see the mule, harnessed to the arrastre, plodding round and round in a slow circle. The pair of huge rocks hanging from the spokes of the arrastre smashed against the smaller rocks in the confines of the stone pit, grinding up the ore.
The noise boomed in her ears. A cloud of dust floated over the arrastre pit. On the other side of the arrastre, Clay was walking up the path, carrying a bucket of water. When he noticed her, his gaze lingered on her with an intensity that banished the last of the early-morning chills.
Halting in her approach, Annabel watched Clay as he set the bucket on the ground and then ran around the arrastre pit to catch up with the mule. Taking hold of the harness, he brought the animal to a stop beside the water bucket.
The grinding noises ceased, leaving a sudden silence. The mule buried its long nose in the bucket and drank, with eager blowing and splashing that filled the quiet. Clay stroked the animal’s lathered flank and tugged at the harness, inspecting the hide to make sure the leather straps were not causing sores.
Annabel loitered over. She could tell Clay’s touch on the mule was gentle, just as it had been when he bandaged her hands. A rebellion stirred in her mind. It seemed to her that kindness and warmth simmered behind Clay’s cool facade, but he hoarded those emotions like a miser might hoard a bag of coins.
Something in her demanded that she force him to reveal those emotions, like her own emotions always flowed freely for others to see. She wanted to strike against the hard surface he presented to the world and make it crack, for no man could be made of stone the way he pretended to be.
She ambled closer. “You’re very kind to that mule. You must love the creature.”
Clay shot her a surly glance from beneath the brim of his hat. “No love to it. An injured animal is no good. It was the same with your blistered skin. You’ll be no good as a laborer if you can’t use your hands.”
“Are you comparing me with the mule?”
“The mule is a darn sight more valuable than a scrawny kid.”
His voice was deadpan, but Annabel could see a shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth. She edged closer and peeked into the circle of stones. “How can I convince you of my value?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Will you teach me how to separate the gold from the gravel?”
She could feel Clay’s attention on her, saw him shift uneasily on his feet. Again, Annabel could sense his sudden withdrawal. “No,” he said curtly. “Not today. I need to crush the ore. There’s another cartful waiting at the mine. You can work in the kitchen. See what you can put together for a noonday meal.”
His rebuff ought to have offended her, but instead it triggered a frisson of excitement. She had little experience of young men, apart from the footmen and grooms at Merlin’s Leap, and they had treated her with a formal respect. She had never had a chance to banter with a young man, and now the challenge filled her with a heady fascination.
Leaving Clay to tend to the mule, Annabel went into the kitchen. A pot of coffee, still warm, stood on the table, with a plate of biscuits. And next to them, a jar of honey! She sat down, poured coffee into a cup and spread honey on two biscuits and devoured them, not touching the rest, in case they were intended as a midmorning snack for the men.
Finished, she dusted the crumbs from her fingers and examined the skin on her palms. There was no sign of infection, just some ragged edges of burst blisters that were beginning to harden into calluses.
Satisfied with the signs of healing, Annabel got up to survey the kitchen contents, starting with the row of grain bins beneath the work counter. Flour. Evaporated vegetables. Rice. Beans. More beans. Jerked meat, perhaps venison.
Her inspection progressed to the shelves. Canned goods. Tins of evaporated milk. Another
