then?”
“Starting with the miners.”
The miners. Now there was a volatile subject. Ever since last September, when the mine’s majority shareholder had allowed his prejudice to turn violent and attempted to rout the local Cheyenne tribe—a rout that had proved deadly for the man in question—there was a void in the town’s power structure. The mine shares transferred into Lucia Matthews’s guardianship for her young son, Irwin, but moneyed men, mostly from the East, had been clamoring to buy her out in the months since her husband’s death.
The widow had been resisting, though not for sentimental reasons. Rumor had it that she was demanding an impossible price for the shares, knowing none would meet it. And if that were the case, then her only intention could be to destroy the miners’ livelihoods, and the economy of Red Creek along with them.
Unsurprising, considering the legacy of hatred and bitterness Jacob Matthews had left for her. And no wonder she’d packed up her life and her son and moved to Denver City. It was nothing more than a stopping place before Lucia and Irwin permanently relocated somewhere far, far away from the wild western frontier.
Personally, Del couldn’t care less what happened to Widow Matthews and her obnoxious whelp, but Moira cared.
Moira cared so much.
In the days following Matthews’s death, she had left a basket of prepared meals on their doorstep. Then she’d tied soft twine around a stack of adventure novels for Irwin, titles from her personal collection, and delivered them, with a note of condolence. After that, she had knocked on the door of the whitewashed, two-story Matthews house and waited for Lucia to answer.
Lucia never had, but Moira had stood on the stoop, shawl tight around her slender shoulders, for twenty minutes, waiting. Just waiting, because Moira needed to make amends with the widow.
After all, Moira had been the one to kill Jacob Matthews.
Covertly watching her stand there, the hopeful set to her shoulders rather tragic, when all was said and done, had done terrible things to Del’s chest—terrible, painful things. But marrying Moira shortly thereafter had done much to soothe that pain.
Lucia never acknowledged Moira’s gifts, nor Moira herself, and soon the Matthews home was empty, its occupants escaped in their grief to the bustling nascence of Denver.
Ever since, the fate of the mine had been in flux, and unrest among the miners had grown, especially with the widow’s recent decision to cut wages. A new majority shareholder was needed to step in and take control, but if Lucia Matthews had her way, she’d turn Red Creek into a ghost town with her refusal to sell, forcing the miners and their families to move elsewhere for work. Soon after, the businesses would follow, and nothing of Red Creek’s vitality would remain.
Del couldn’t allow that to happen, and not only because he’d gotten rather attached to the small town and its diverse citizens. No, he needed to save this town for his wife, as Moira—his beloved, increasingly distant Moira—would never forgive herself for the inadvertent role she had played in the community’s demise.
But first, he had to keep the damn town from burning down.
Foot in the stirrup, Del swung atop his horse, nudging the mare in the direction of the large ore mine several miles to the north, marking the border between wilderness and Red Creek proper. “This ought to be fun.” Without waiting for John’s rejoinder, Del clicked his tongue and rode off, knowing his deputy would follow.
***
M oira hated crying.
She’d hardly shed a tear as Sister Verity, the nun who was raped in a dirty Boston alley. She hadn’t cried as Moira Tully, the schoolteacher whose ear had been partially shot off by a Confederate gunslinger. She certainly wasn’t going to cry as Moira Crawford, beloved wife of that former gunslinger, just because her bread dough refused to rise.
Yet here Moira
“Starting with the miners.”
The miners. Now there was a volatile subject. Ever since last September, when the mine’s majority shareholder had allowed his prejudice to turn violent and attempted to rout the local Cheyenne tribe—a rout that had proved deadly for the man in question—there was a void in the town’s power structure. The mine shares transferred into Lucia Matthews’s guardianship for her young son, Irwin, but moneyed men, mostly from the East, had been clamoring to buy her out in the months since her husband’s death.
The widow had been resisting, though not for sentimental reasons. Rumor had it that she was demanding an impossible price for the shares, knowing none would meet it. And if that were the case, then her only intention could be to destroy the miners’ livelihoods, and the economy of Red Creek along with them.
Unsurprising, considering the legacy of hatred and bitterness Jacob Matthews had left for her. And no wonder she’d packed up her life and her son and moved to Denver City. It was nothing more than a stopping place before Lucia and Irwin permanently relocated somewhere far, far away from the wild western frontier.
Personally, Del couldn’t care less what happened to Widow Matthews and her obnoxious whelp, but Moira cared.
Moira cared so much.
In the days following Matthews’s death, she had left a basket of prepared meals on their doorstep. Then she’d tied soft twine around a stack of adventure novels for Irwin, titles from her personal collection, and delivered them, with a note of condolence. After that, she had knocked on the door of the whitewashed, two-story Matthews house and waited for Lucia to answer.
Lucia never had, but Moira had stood on the stoop, shawl tight around her slender shoulders, for twenty minutes, waiting. Just waiting, because Moira needed to make amends with the widow.
After all, Moira had been the one to kill Jacob Matthews.
Covertly watching her stand there, the hopeful set to her shoulders rather tragic, when all was said and done, had done terrible things to Del’s chest—terrible, painful things. But marrying Moira shortly thereafter had done much to soothe that pain.
Lucia never acknowledged Moira’s gifts, nor Moira herself, and soon the Matthews home was empty, its occupants escaped in their grief to the bustling nascence of Denver.
Ever since, the fate of the mine had been in flux, and unrest among the miners had grown, especially with the widow’s recent decision to cut wages. A new majority shareholder was needed to step in and take control, but if Lucia Matthews had her way, she’d turn Red Creek into a ghost town with her refusal to sell, forcing the miners and their families to move elsewhere for work. Soon after, the businesses would follow, and nothing of Red Creek’s vitality would remain.
Del couldn’t allow that to happen, and not only because he’d gotten rather attached to the small town and its diverse citizens. No, he needed to save this town for his wife, as Moira—his beloved, increasingly distant Moira—would never forgive herself for the inadvertent role she had played in the community’s demise.
But first, he had to keep the damn town from burning down.
Foot in the stirrup, Del swung atop his horse, nudging the mare in the direction of the large ore mine several miles to the north, marking the border between wilderness and Red Creek proper. “This ought to be fun.” Without waiting for John’s rejoinder, Del clicked his tongue and rode off, knowing his deputy would follow.
***
M oira hated crying.
She’d hardly shed a tear as Sister Verity, the nun who was raped in a dirty Boston alley. She hadn’t cried as Moira Tully, the schoolteacher whose ear had been partially shot off by a Confederate gunslinger. She certainly wasn’t going to cry as Moira Crawford, beloved wife of that former gunslinger, just because her bread dough refused to rise.
Yet here Moira
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