Perfectly Mismatched (Sweethearts of Jubilee Springs Book 1) Page 2

  As he worked, he thought of Da’s laugh over his youngest son’s profession. Strapping in size from a wee age, a barely sixteen-year-old Declan had vowed he wouldn’t waste his time scraping a meager living with potato farming in Ireland’s rocky soil. He regretted those words, but here he was, a decade later, tasked with attacking rock walls five and a half working days a week.

  Since immigrating to America, Declan worked as a stevedore in New York and Boston harbors. Both short-term because he bristled at how Irish mob bosses controlled the trades. He lent his muscles to digging basements for office buildings and foundations for houses, and even spent a few months working for a cemetery in Omaha. Sitting as guard on stagecoach routes hadn’t provided enough activity to his liking. Providing security for railroad shipments flat out put him to sleep.

  Each dissatisfaction with a job propelled him farther west until he’d landed in Colorado. He figured he’d worked for just about every large mining operation in the Rockies before hearing about the change in ownership in Jubilee Springs. The idea of working under new owners appealed, so he’d ridden over the Rockies from Gunnison to check out the Prosperity Mine. Getting hired on with the Bainbridges’ first crews proved his decision right. Dedication and a level-headed attitude moved him into the position of night crew chief before his first anniversary. When the opportunity to shift to the day crew arose, he’d applied for the position and didn’t regret his decision.

  Declan leaned an elbow on the end of the axe handle and tugged down the handkerchief that hung over his nose and mouth. Every so often, he needed to breath unfiltered air, but not for long. Rumors abounded about how men who spent too much time underground got a lung sickness. Around him came the irregular pounding of metal against stone. Blotting his forehead with his shirt sleeve, he stepped a few feet away and glanced down the tunnel, reviewing the progress of his crew.

  A row of strong-muscled men swung their pickaxes, chipping away pieces of the walls. Others used sledgehammers to smash the big masses into teacup-sized rocks. Several men gathered those stones, dumped them into buckets, and carried them to the wooden pulley elevator. On the surface, the buckets were unloaded into a circular arrastra and the rocks broken down to small pebbles between flat grinding stones. Those showing silver would be processed further.

  He dug out his silver Waltham pocket watch and flipped open the engraved hunter-case cover. Thirty minutes remained before the men shifted duties—a forward-thinking method he admired about the Bainbridge brothers’ management.

  Just as he hefted his pickaxe, Declan heard the creak of the ropes on the pulley as it lowered followed by the crunch of boots. He looked up and spotted one of the mine’s owners, Royce, sauntering his way with his own pickaxe.

  About six feet tall, the broad-shouldered man paused a couple feet away. “Got an announcement to make at the end of shift. Make sure your crew gathers near the arrastra.”

  “Aye, will do, boss.” Declan dipped his chin in a respectful nod. The younger Bainbridge brother had reddish brown hair like his own and hazel eyes. Curiosity burned about the subject of the announcement, but Declan knew his place wasn’t to inquire. “Lookin’ to bust up some rocks, are ye?”

  “That I am. Couldn’t stand sitting in that office chair reading assay reports for another minute.” Royce balanced the handle against his leg and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He gave a quick look around then leaned forward with a grin. “Clive and I contacted a Denver agency to arrange for mail-order brides.”

  “Ye don’t say.” Declan stiffened, his hand clamping tight on the tool handle. He remembered the petition circulating the bunkhouse a few weeks back. He’d added his signature, more to show support of the men’s demands for available women than because he’d given much thought to marrying again. His throat tightened.

  Royce hefted the pickaxe to his shoulder. “Mum’s the word for now.”

  Declan snapped a salute and returned to his task. After pulling up the handkerchief onto his nose, he smashed the pickaxe’s point onto the nearby rock wall. The word “bride” sent his thoughts tumbling to his youth in County Mayo and the carefree courting of his sweet Moira. The lass he’d loved with all his heart possessed eyes of blue-gray like a storm-tossed lake and curls of the shiniest strawberry blonde. Happy were those short months of marriage between eighteen-year-old Declan and seventeen-year-old Moira. Although chided by his parents to wait, Declan prided himself on arranging for a small plot of land on the Wesleyan Estate where Moira’s parents farmed. Somehow, working in the soil hadn’t bothered him as much when the goal had been to build his own household.

  He swung harder, relishing the sting against his forearms, and hot breaths rasped from his mouth. Moira loved to cook, and she tended a small herb garden in a patch of soil near the lane. Her herbs and spices turned their simple peasant fare into tasty feasts. One morning, she vowed to concoct a special dish using the fresh greens sprouting near the estate’s lake. With a hand covering the bump on her expanding belly, Declan warned her about taking too long of a walk. Her eyes had flashed in mock anger then she dissolved into her sweet-toned laughter.

  Only he’d never tasted what she intended to cook. Bored sons and nephews of the English absentee landlord decided on a steeplechase race through the grounds. The moment Declan heard the galloping horses on the trail and the high-spirited taunting among the riders, he tossed down his hoe and sprinted toward the lake. Ten minutes later, he found Moira’s limp body sprawled among the watercress at the lake’s edge. Muddy hoof prints spotted her apron and skirt. One smeared curve cut open her scalp down to the bone.

  Not knowing what to do, he’d pressed his handkerchief to her wound to staunch the bleeding as he shook her and blew air into her mouth. Holding her face next to his and beseeching the saints to allow the softest puff of her own breathing proved futile. His dearest love was gone from this earth. As surely as one can tear a cloth in two, his heart had been cleaved that day.

  Reliving the sad memories fueled his swings. He glanced around to see if Royce was still nearby. As was the boss’s habit, he’d moved deeper into the tunnel among the crew. The muscles in Declan’s shoulders ached from exertion, and he stopped, setting his pickaxe against the wall. He braced both hands on his knees and leaned over to draw in deep breaths. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he fumbled inside his open-necked shirt for the whistle hanging from a leather cord. As distracted as he was, he shouldn’t be using a sharp tool like his axe.

  Giving three short blasts, he signaled the change of duties. When the tunnel quieted, he faced the crew. “Boss wants to address us at end of shift. Meet at the arrastra.” Seeing answering nods, he trudged deeper into the tunnel lit with oil lamps to grab the metal bails of two buckets.

  Two hours later, he gave a long blast on his whistle and set aside the buckets. Around him the clanking of metal on rock diminished, and conversations rose. His assistant manager approached, a frown marring his forehead. Jared Manning stood two inches shorter than Declan but weighed about the same.

  Jared crossed both arms over his chest. “What’s this announcement about? Are layoffs coming?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Declan brushed his hands together to remove the dirt. “In about five minutes, I think ye’ll find out with the rest.”

  The crew gathered at the base of the pulley elevator, waiting for the ride to the surface. Only six men fit on the platform for each lift. Like every day, bodies jostled for the foremost positions and voices lifted in argument.

  Declan kept to the back of the waiting miners, letting the men work out their places. Almost without thinking, he registered each series of bell clangs--one for ascending trips and two for descending ones. He made a habit of being on the last ride to make sure the tunnel had emptied.

  Jared stood off to the side, giving a yank to the bell rope to signal the muleskinner on the surface to start the animals forward. As was his practice, he rode up with those in the next to last trip.

  Two sharp cla
ngs rang out, announcing the elevator’s descent. After a final look around, Declan stepped onto the platform with the last few miners. Within moments, a breeze buffeted his body and he breathed in a lungful of fresh air. All sixty miners stood congregated around the double grinding wheel as instructed, although the crews kept themselves separate.

  Shuffling boots and muffled chortles sounded, followed by a squeal from the mule tethered to the arrastra. He strode close in time to spot the brown-and-orange body of a Western Whiptail lizard drop from the animal’s back and scurry under a nearby rock. Two laughing miners punched each other on the shoulders. “Latham and Sobel, don’t mess with company property. If that mule moves another foot, both of ye will earn a chit against this week’s pay.” He reached into his back pocket for his small notepad and waved it between the suddenly cowed men.

  “Gents, thank you for waiting.” Royce jumped on top of a barrel and held up his arms until the group quieted.

  Clive Bainbridge stepped up next to the barrel and surveyed the group.

  Declan didn’t often see the mine’s co-owner on this part of the property. Even though the heat had built during the day, Clive wore a business suit complete with vest. The brim of his hat hid most of his jet black hair, but his sharp cobalt-blue gaze missed nothing.

  “Your entreaty about the lack of single women in Jubilee Springs has been heard, gentlemen.” Royce tucked his thumbs under the straps of his red suspenders. “My brother and I are pleased to announce we’ve signed an agreement with the Colorado Bridal Agency to make arrangements for mail-order brides.”

  Cheers and whistles filled the air. A couple men linked elbows and two-stepped in a tight circle. Others leaned toward those closest and murmured.

  “Quiet now.” Clive spoke in his bass voice. “Hear us out on the details.”

  “Those wanting to find a bride need to register at the mining office. But before you all rush over and sign on the dotted line, you need to know what is expected. Each man must be serious about making a marriage match and will pay ten dollars, which covers the train fare from Denver.” Royce swung out a hand. “My brother and I will cover the additional cost for any bride coming from a greater distance. Also, we’re building ten three-room cabins that will be rented to married couples. The last requirement is you must write an introductory letter about yourself. The matchmaker’s an expert in analyzing handwriting and will use the letters she receives to make appropriate matches. After that, further correspondence is to be worked out between you and the lady.”

  Declan listened to the details and reflected on his bosses’ generosity. His thoughts filtered back to happy days in Ireland and how much he enjoyed coming home to a wife who tidied the house and provided meals.

  “When will this happen?”

  “Ten dollars is a lot of money.”

  “Will they be pretty?”

  Stepping forward, Clive lifted a hand until the crowd grew silent. “Sign-ups need to take place in the next few days so you have time to correspond. Brides arrive on July first, escorted by the matchmaker. Events and activities are being planned so you’ll have time to get acquainted. You’ll be courting these ladies, albeit for only a bit longer than two days. For those who make agreeable matches, weddings will occur on Monday the fourth.”

  Only two days to learn about a spouse? Declan frowned and looked around, seeing how others reacted to that information. Most of the men nodded or smiled.

  “And, gents…” Royce cleared his throat and ran a hand over his face. “I have to warn you that the matchmaker insisted on the policy of each bride corresponding with two interested grooms. Which means not every man who registers will make a connection this first time. But never fear, Missus Millard assures me this arrangement will continue until all who wish to find a bride are satisfied.”

  “Thank you for listening.” Clive nodded. “Royce and I appreciate you as Prosperity Mine employees and want to make your lives as enjoyable as we can. I’m headed back to the office for anyone who has questions or wants to register.”

  The crowd separated like a stream flowing over rocks--night crew moving toward the mine opening, some men heading toward the bunkhouse, and a final group following in Clive’s footsteps. Without making a conscious decision, Declan merged into the final group, wondering if the spirit of competition enticed, or if he was lured by acknowledging six years was long enough to mourn. He had to get on with his life.

  Chapter Three

  Rhythmic clanking of the metal wheels on the rails lulled Aurelia into a drowsy state. Majestic mountains that filled the horizon for hours had doubled in height as the train crossed the grass-filled prairie. Over the past hour, the speed had slowed as the engine chugged up the grade.

  Twittering laughter roused Aurelia, and she straightened and looked around. Ahead a few seats sat two women who she’d noticed after the train left Topeka behind. Her previous hometown held a threat to her security. Although several weeks had passed, news of Papa’s crimes hadn’t disappeared from the headlines. She couldn’t take the chance the sheriff was on the lookout for family members. To remain hidden, Aurelia spent the interval of the train stop locked behind one of the lavatory curtains.

  A uniformed conductor stepped through the sliding door and waddled up the aisle, the golden chain of his pocket watch swinging with each step. He stopped to speak to a gray-haired man.

  Glancing through the window, Aurelia saw rocky ground covered with fir trees offering a mixed palette of greens. So different from the oaks and elms in the city. The rough landscape fascinated her, as long as she looked toward the mountain. Now that the route had switchbacked a couple of times, the view over the canyon caused her stomach to tumble. Although, going so long without the sight of buildings proved unnerving. What did Jubilee Springs look like?

  The shuffle of approaching footsteps brought her head around. “How much longer to Denver?”

  “About an hour, miss. We’re right on schedule.” The conductor nodded and set a pudgy hand on the nearest chair back. “As long as the rails ahead remain clear.”

  “I understand.” She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and blotted it against her face. Travel in this car where some passengers left down the windows was dusty, and she wouldn’t feel clean until she’d had a long soak in a warm bath.

  A female passenger with yellowish wavy hair stood to reach down a satchel from the overhead rack. The brown-haired lady in a calico dress at her side glanced around.

  Aurelia had the impression of a shy woman with a narrow face and light eyes before the two put their heads together and laughed. From the corner of her eye, she noticed another woman with brown hair staring at the pair. Watching the women sharing confidences made Aurelia miss Rilleta, although she’d been gone from Auntie Gwen’s for less than two days.

  Her mind wandered back to the sisters’ panicked escape from Topeka. Cashing in the tickets for their summer trip had provided a tidy sum. A few pieces of Mama’s jewelry were sacrificed in Missouri to guarantee Rilleta wasn’t a drain on their auntie’s household until Aurelia could send for her. And an ad found in the Kansas City Star had set her on this mail-order bride journey.

  “Ten minutes, folks.” The conductor stood at the doorway between rail cars. “Arriving in Denver in ten minutes. Be sure to look around your seats and gather all your possessions.”

  Before she knew it, Aurelia was on the busy train platform with her portmanteau balanced at her side with two carpetbags resting on top. She stood on tiptoes and looked around for the lady from the bridal agency. What was her name? Back in Topeka, she wouldn’t have given a second thought to hailing a hansom cab to transport her. But here, she had to budget the money she held. As soon as Aurelia was married, she had to buy a train ticket so Rilleta could join her.

  The two seatmates from the train stood huddled with another woman, their heads bobbing and dropping like curious chickens.

  From the depot emerged a short woman dressed in a serviceable lilac dress. A whi
te hat with small plume perched on top of her chestnut hair. Waving a hand over her head, she made a beeline for the group.

  Aurelia gathered her belongings and hurried toward them, wishing she could spare a nickel to hire a porter. As she approached, she saw a succession of nods and smiles that probably meant introductions were being made. “Excuse me, are you with the Colorado Bridal Agency?”

  Four women stopped their conversation and turned at the interruption.

  “I’m Missus Millard.” She perused a sheet of paper. “And you must be Aurelia North”

  Aurelia jerked up a staying hand. “I am.” No need to broadcast her last name to everyone in earshot. She straightened, resisting the urge to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt.

  “Wonderful. The potential brides are all accounted for.” Missus Millard flashed a smile around the group, her round cheeks reddening. “I have a carriage waiting.” With a squint of her brown eyes, she eyed the piles of baggage. “And I can hire a cab for the luggage, if needed. Come, ladies.”

  The others rushed to get in line behind the matchmaker. Rather than risk looking like the last straggling duckling, Aurelia allowed a five-foot space to develop before she started walking. With more effort than she preferred expending, she helped load her luggage into a cab and then squished into a spot on the backward-facing seat.

  Missus Millard provided a running commentary about the neighborhoods they rode through until the coach stopped at 1710 Larimer.

  Some of the stately houses reminded Aurelia of Twin Oaks, and her heart ached for a home she’d probably never see again. When the carriage stopped, she gazed at a big oak tree shading the front yard. Set back from the street stood a two-story house painted dove-gray with white curlicue trim under the eaves and around the window frames. After climbing down from the carriage, she paused a few moments to relish the relief that her body wasn’t at the whim of a moving conveyance. On the walk toward the porch, she noted a garden of bright flowers off to the left that had outgrown its borders. Aurelia certainly hoped the proprietress paid more attention to her matchmaking.