Tenacious Love (Banished Saga, Book Four): Banished Saga, Book Four by Ramona Flightner Page B

will always remain powerless.”

    * * *
    P atrick slipped from the room he rented in an upscale boarding house in Uptown Butte on Quartz Street and wandered toward Main Street. He entered the Mile High Saloon on Granite Street, pushing his way to the bar. When he had the barman’s attention, he ordered a pint, slapped down his coin and then moved toward the back wall. He leaned against it, ostensibly lost in his own thoughts, while he listened to his neighbors’ conversations.
    He hid his grin or grimace by taking sips of his pint, but an alert miner noticed him and propped a shoulder on the wall, facing him.
    He was at least six-and-a-half-feet tall, with pale blond hair and striking blue eyes. “You find our talk humorous?” He spoke with a slight accent, although Patrick couldn’t immediately place it.
    “Not at all. Although I find your conversations illuminating.”
    “You aren’t a miner,” the man said in an accusatory manner.
    “No. I’m the one who works on the payroll so you get paid,” Patrick said with a droll smile.
    “You work for the Company?” the man hissed.
    Patrick glanced around, thankful the man’s voice hadn’t carried too far as Patrick didn’t look forward to miners, angry with stagnant wages, inflation and ever-increasing mine profits, venting their anger on him. “Yeah.” He took a sip of his beer.
    “Did you implement that card system?”
    “Hell, no,” Patrick said with an emphatic shake of his head. “I didn’t arrive until a few months ago, and I believe that started in December of ’12. You believe I have more clout than I do. I have none with the Company. I’m a hired laborer, in many ways like a miner.”
    “No, you’re not. You don’t have to go down there and risk your life every day. You don’t have to worry if your mine will be open or if the Company has decided to close it for some reason, leaving you no way to pay rent or buy food.”
    “Very true. I meant no offense.” He held out his free hand. “I’m Patrick Sullivan.”
    “I’m Elias Laine, from Finntown.”
    “Ah, Finnish,” he said. “I couldn’t determine your accent.”
    “I’ve been in America for many years, and I’ve tried to become American.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail.” He waved his hand in a cutting manner.
    “Have you always been a miner?”
    “No, I was a farmer back home, but there’s never enough land for a big family. So I left.”
    “So Butte’s your home.”
    “For now. I come and go. When there’s work, I work. When not, I move on.”
    Patrick nodded as he glanced around the crowded bar, everyone standing shoulder to shoulder, gripping at least one pint. He didn’t relish pushing his way forward for another drink, so he relaxed against the wall, continuing his conversation with the talkative Elias. “Would seem a hard way to raise a family.”
    “If you had one. Life as a transient, indigent miner makes it hard to rear a family.” He shook his head with chagrin. “Besides, women are smarter these days. They don’t want a man going down the mine. Not when there’s such a great risk of maiming and death.” He stared at Patrick with a touch of envy. “They’d be looking for the likes of you.”
    Patrick laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m not the marrying kind.”
    “No family then.”
    Patrick’s gaze became shadowed before he forced a smile. “Not really.”
    Elias was called away by his friends. Patrick stood among the crowd for a few more minutes before venturing forth to enjoy an evening in Butte.

    * * *
    P atrick reached out a hand , grabbing the woman by her arm an instant before she would have plummeted into the lake at the Columbia Gardens. “I wouldn’t advise swimming, ma’am.”
    She stuttered out a laugh, her alarm-filled gaze shifting to one of recognition. “Mr. Sullivan?” At his curious stare, she nodded as she repeated, “It is Mr. Sullivan, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, it is,” he said, his confusion