Tatiana March - From Runaway To Pregnant Bride

“Watch your eyes, in case any stone chips fly up,” he instructed. “And try to make sure the pulverized ore stays inside the fence, so we don’t lose any gold.”

He handed the sledgehammer to her. The weight made her drop it.

Clay grinned. “You are meant to hit the ore, not your toes.”

He fetched another small rock from the arrastre, placed it on the stone slab. Annabel heaved up the sledgehammer and smashed it down. The piece of ore glanced off and landed on the ground outside the timber circle.

“Let’s try again.” Clay bent down, replaced the ore on the slab.

Annabel swung the hammer. Again. Again. Every blow jarred her arms and shoulders, but the rock resisted her efforts.

“Like this.” Clay took the sledgehammer from her.

At the fleeting touch of their hands, Annabel could feel the strength in him, could feel the roughness of his palm against the back of her fingers. Acutely aware of his nearness, almost as if he was touching her even when he wasn’t, she watched Clay lift the sledgehammer with one hand, then casually swing it down again. The rock crumbled into rubble, and he swept the remains down into the timber circle.

“Try a smaller rock,” he suggested.

This time Annabel chose a piece of ore the size of a grapefruit. She swung the sledgehammer. The rock merely bounced up and down. She turned to Clay. “I understand the task. You can go now.” She gestured at the arrastre. “It is not as if I am in danger of damaging the equipment. I think I can work without supervision.”

Clay contemplated her, shifted his shoulders and walked off. Annabel waited while he spoke to Mr. Hicks and then vanished out of sight behind a dried-up oak that leaned against the cliffs, presumably hiding the entrance to the mine.

The instant he was out of sight, Annabel attacked the piece of ore, using the physical task as a means to ease the mental agitation that had taken hold of her. She searched her mind for a suitable sea shanty from the repertoire Papa had taught her and her sisters and sang as she pounded, determination in every blow. A rock would not get the better of her. Not as long as there was a spark of life left in her.

* * *

Clay stepped into the harness and jerked the ore-filled cart into motion. The arrastre was already full from the labors of Mr. Hicks the day before, so he left the cart at the mouth of the mine tunnel and returned inside to collect the storm lanterns that eased the darkness and made the seam of gold glitter in the rock face.

Curious to see how the kid was getting on, Clay mopped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve, adjusted the brim of his hat and stepped out into the sunlight. As he sauntered toward the arrastre, he could hear the steady pounding and a grim, breathless voice singing some kind of a tune.

He never kissed his girl goodbye...pang

He left her and he told her why...pang

She drank and boozed his pay away...pang

With her greedy eye on his next payday...pang

She’d robbed him blind and left him broke...pang

He’d had enough, gave her the hove...pang

Clay halted, mesmerized by the sight. The kid was flinging the big hammer high, nearly leaping into the air to increase the arc of his swing, and then he brought the hammer down, his whole body driving the motion.

Clay’s gaze fell on the rounded posterior. With each blow, the kid bent over, and the baggy pants pulled tight over his rear end. Clay felt his gut clench. Aghast, he closed his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him?

Gritting his teeth, he marched over, fighting the confusion and panic that surged within him. “That’s enough.” His tone was brusque. “You are scaring every living creature for miles around with that hollering.”

The kid whirled around and smiled at him. “It’s a sea shanty. Sailors sing them to accompany their work. I told you, my father was a seaman.”

There was such warmth in the kid’s smile, such joy of life, Clay felt his breath catch. Proud as a peacock, the kid pointed at the pulverized ore inside the timber circle. “See? I told you I’d earn my keep.”

Clay peered down. He’d crushed that quantity of ore in ten minutes.

“Good,” he said. “That’s enough for today. Go help in the kitchen.”

As he reached to take the hammer from the kid, his eyes refused to lift from the kid’s radiant features. Sweat beaded on the smooth skin and the innocent face shone red from the effort, but the sense of achievement emanating from the kid was almost thick enough to put into a bottle.

The hammer, slick with sweat, slipped from Clay’s clasp. He waved the kid on his way, then wiped his hands on the front of his shirt and bent to pick up the hammer from the ground. His attention fell on the dark smears his hands had left on his shirt. He lifted the hammer, studied the handle, spotted a trace of blood.

“Kid,” he roared. “Come back here.”

The kid edged back, hands hidden behind his back.

“What did you do?” Clay asked, gently now. “Did you cut your skin on a sharp stone?”

“No.”

He made a beckoning motion. “Kid... Scrappy... let’s take a look.” When the kid refused to obey, Clay inserted a touch of steel into his tone. “Put out your hands.”

The soft mouth pursed in mutiny, but the kid put out his hands, palms up. On each hand, a line of blisters marred the delicate skin.

“You fool,” Clay said, but not without kindness. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you injure yourself. Haven’t you heard of gloves?”

“I tried them. They were too big.” The narrow shoulders rose and fell in a careless shrug. “It’s nothing. Because I’m small and young, I’m used to having to work extra hard to prove myself.”

“Let’s patch you up.” Clay led the kid into the kitchen. Mr. Hicks had gone to inspect the ore in the mine tunnel, leaving dinner bubbling on the stove.

Clay poured hot water into a bowl and located a jar of ointment and bandages on the shelf. Every time a cotton shirt wore out, it was torn into strips, in preparedness for the accidents and mishaps that were inevitable in mining.

He settled the kid on a log stump. Finding it awkward to bend to the task, Clay sat down himself and perched the kid on his knee. One at a time, he washed the kid’s hands in warm water.

The kid had small, fine bones. Clay rubbed ointment on the damaged skin, his fingers sliding gently over the blisters, and then he wrapped a bandage around each hand and secured it with a knot.

He tried to ignore the sudden pounding of his heart. The kid smelled unlike any other scrawny kid he’d ever known, fresh and clean, like a spring meadow. Clay felt his body quicken. Appalled, he realized that holding the kid was stirring up the masculine needs he’d learned to ignore. Roughly, he pushed the kid off his knee.

“That should do.” His voice came out strained. “Leave the dressings on for a couple of hours, until the blisters stop weeping. Then take them off. It’s better to let the air to the skin.” He jolted up to his feet. “I’ll go and check on the horse and mule.”

Not pausing to wait for a reply, Clay hurried down the path that led to a small meadow where the animals stood grazing. Out of sight, he leaned his back against the rough trunk of a pine and inhaled deep breaths, the unwanted waves of lust and protectiveness surging through him.

In the orphanage he’d seen it—boys desperate for the comfort of love formed a bond with another boy, treating each other like a sweetheart. He didn’t condemn the practice, each man to his own, but he’d always dreamed of girls, had even paid for the company of a few, but perhaps in the face of loneliness a man could change his preferences? Could he? Could he?

Chapter Five