Tenacious Love (Banished Saga, Book Four): Banished Saga, Book Four Page 10

  Elias laughed and slapped him on his back. “If it’s that good-looking lady from the gardens I’ve seen you with a few times, you’d be a fool to not become better acquainted with her.”

  They stood in companionable silence a while, sipping their drinks.

  Patrick broke the silence, saying, “I thought your union was strong. That Butte was a mining town where the miners set down roots and raised families.”

  “Not anymore. The union was strong when it was run for the Irish. When Marcus Daly was in town.”

  “He’s been dead for years,” Patrick said, taking a sip of whiskey and crossing one leg in front of the other as he leaned against the wall. “Didn’t he die in 1900?”

  “Ya, and those of us not from Ireland …” Elias shook his head with disgust. “They refused to strike last year when a group of Finns was fired. Refused to stand up for their own union members.”

  “What were they accused of?”

  “Being Socialists.”

  Patrick smiled wryly. “You can see why the mining companies would be hesitant to have Socialists, eager to wreak havoc wherever they go, working in a mine. They could endanger the lives of many men.” He thought of the daily mine accidents leading to maimings and death. He shook his head as he envisioned a group belowground, intent on causing harm. “I can’t blame the Company for wanting to keep its people safe.”

  “Did the union stand up for five hundred of their members when they were fired?” Elias’s eyes blazed. “No. Because they weren’t Irish. Many were fired by their foremen, Irishmen, who didn’t want Finns working with them.”

  Patrick frowned and was about to speak but held his tongue as Elias barreled on.

  “Has the union demanded that the Company stop using the rustling card system? Of course not. We’re all convinced they helped create the damn thing to keep us in our place and to force us to pay our dues to a union that doesn’t represent us.” He glared at Patrick. “They want to do all they can to help the Irish and keep the rest of us from any position of power.”

  “I’m sure it’s more complicated than that,” Patrick murmured.

  “Just as I’m sure you don’t want to see it as being that simple—what with a last name like Sullivan.” Elias glared at him.

  “Listen, I have no say over anything that happens in the Company.” He frowned, staring into the amber liquid in his glass. “I only accepted the job here as I had hoped it would provide me with a fresh start.”

  “Well, if you have any friends who are in higher places, I’d think they’d be worried. The miners are restless, and they aren’t happy.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’d think that would make the miners more uneasy than the mine owners. If you aren’t organized, you have no bargaining ability with the Company.”

  Elias snorted. “That’s what the union keeps saying. That we must be a unified group. But they want us unified in their way. The old way. We aren’t willing to accept that.”

  “I fear your union may be correct.” Patrick speared Elias with an intense stare. “You splinter that union, and you may well lose all your influence with the Company.”

  Elias smiled ruefully and raised his glass to Patrick. “I never thought I’d have a drink with a man who works for them yet encourages me to remain in my union.”

  Patrick laughed. “I’ve never been conventional.”

  A warm breeze blew, bringing a respite to the day’s even warmer temperature. Men sat on boardinghouse stoops or stood outside the bars to enjoy the evening. Patrick nodded to a few he knew and entered a small café for dinner. He waved off the hostess, moving toward a small booth along one wall. Large windows, opened to the night’s breeze, let in the evening light and fresh air. “Hello, Miss O’Leary,” Patrick said with a grin. He frowned as she jolted at his voice.

  She met his gaze, any hint of discomfort replaced with delight at seeing him. “Mr. Sullivan. I was about to order supper. Would you like to join me?”

  He nodded his agreement and sat with her. “I’m not certain this is altogether proper,” he said, appearing uncertain.

  She laughed. “There’s no concern for my reputation. We’re doing nothing untoward. Times are changing, Mr. Sullivan.” Her cognac-colored eyes shone with amusement. “Why aren’t you eating at your place of lodging? I thought it came with full room and board.”

  “After months of eating the same food on the same night of the week, I needed a break. Today would have been mutton with creamed peas and mashed turnips.” He shook his head ruefully. “Have I ever told you how much I hate turnips?”

  She laughed, their easy friendship solidifying. “I’ll have to remember.”

  “I had hoped to see you last week. There was a silent film I thought you and your sister would enjoy.” The joy in his eyes dimmed as she merely smiled at him. “Well, hopefully next time you’ll be free.”

  She smiled at the waitress as they ordered—fried chicken for her and steak for him. “How are things at the office?” she asked.

  “I’d think you’d know more about that than I do,” Patrick said with a chuckle. “I merely tally numbers. Your boss is the one in charge.”

  “He wouldn’t share anything of import with his secretary,” she murmured.

  Patrick paused from replying, studying her a moment.

  She fiddled with the salt shaker, and her mouth had lost its customary uptilt at the corners. A slight frown marred the pale skin between her eyebrows, and her gaze had become unfocused.

  He reached forward, stilling her hands’ repetitive sliding of the shaker. “Miss O’Leary, are you well?” He frowned as he looked into her eyes. Devastation and despair met his concerned gaze for an instant before she blinked, and then all hint of such emotion disappeared.

  “I’m perfectly well. There’s no need for any worry,” she said with a bright smile.

  Patrick frowned, shaking his head in disbelief. “I know we are just becoming friends. But I want you to know you could come to me about anything, and I’d help you,” he whispered. His frown turned to a near scowl as she refused to meet his eyes, instead focusing on the tabletop and nodding a few times in a dismissive manner.

  “Of course.”

  “Miss O’Leary,” he said, sliding from the booth. “I fear I’m interrupting what you’d hoped to be a solitary supper. I’ll speak with the hostess about obtaining another seat.” He rose, grabbing his jacket at the last moment before it slipped to the floor.

  She reached out, grasping his hand so that he couldn’t move past her. “Please don’t leave. I’m horrible company tonight, but I don’t want to be alone. Stay and tell me about your family in Missoula, your travels before arriving to Butte. Anything to distract me. Please?”

  He reached forward, a finger stroking down one of her cheeks in a featherlight caress before nodding his agreement. He squeezed her hand once, then stepped toward the booth and slid back in. “What interests you the most?” he asked.

  “Anything,” she said, unable to hide a relieved smile.

  Patrick laughed and regaled her of his journeys around the United States, noting the return of her good spirits moment by moment. He answered her inquisitive questions, and they laughed together at the ridiculous antics he’d participated in, and, for an instant, he knew joy.

  “Sullivan,” Samuel said as he stood across from Patrick’s desk in the open workspace on the sixth floor of the Hennessy Building. Light streamed in from a nearby window, limning Patrick’s desk covered with scattered papers, pencils and a slide rule.

  Patrick raised his head, his gaze slowly focusing on Samuel. “Yes?” He cleared his throat and shook his head as though clearing it of rows of numbers.

  “Please come to my office.”

  Patrick frowned at Samuel’s brisk tone as he marched away. Patrick sighed, marking where he was in a long line of figures before dropping his pencil onto his desk. He rolled down his shirt sleeves and pulled his suit jacket from his chairback, slipping it on as he strode down
the hall. He nodded to Fiona before entering the boss’s office.

  Samuel’s office was shadowed this time of day and filled with heavy oak furniture. A neat stack of papers sat at the corner of his desk, while a pen lay beside it. A framed photograph of Boston sat on the opposite corner. A large framed photo of Columbia Gardens hung on the wall behind his desk, while smaller photos of Uptown Butte hung on the opposite wall. Two polished chairs sat in front of the desk. Samuel waved at Patrick to shut the door and to sit down. He did as he was bid, remaining silent.

  “I’m certain you know why I’ve asked you here.” He steepled his fingers in front of him as he propped his elbows on the arms of his wooden chair. At Patrick’s perplexed frown, he glowered. “Your association with ruffians must come to an end.”

  “Ruffians?”

  “Don’t act innocent. Of course you know to whom I refer. Those dispensable, interchangeable miners.”

  “Have you been spying on me?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. It has merely been noted that you have had quite a few conversations with miners recently. Specifically with the same miner.”

  “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”

  “Do you know he’s a suspected Wobbly? That, bare minimum, he’s a Socialist?” At Patrick’s blank stare, Samuel slapped his desk. “I expected better of you.” Samuel leaned forward, his brown eyes gleaming with indignation. “When you work for the Company, in your position, under me, with the amount of money passing through your desk to ensure proper tallying of funds, it is essential you be seen as aboveboard. Anything you do that is untoward reflects on me.”

  “And talking with a miner discredits me?”

  “Of course. You cannot sympathize with them. They’re a commodity, just like copper.”

  “They’re people, Samuel. With hopes and dreams, like you or me.” Patrick fought the urge to rise and kick at Samuel’s desk. Instead he gripped his legs to the point of bruising.

  “No, Patrick. They’re the machine that allows us to extract the copper and make a good living. I’d hate to think you’d forget who writes your check each week.” Samuel pointed a finger at Patrick. “And also remember, what discredits you, discredits me. I refuse to ever be forced to excuse your behavior again to the upper brass.”

  Patrick glared at him. “Of course. I apologize for placing you in such a position.” He took a deep breath as his words had emerged as though choked by rage. “I’ll remember to whom I owe my loyalty. I’m grateful for the work. For the new start.”

  “I took a chance on you. You owe me. Don’t further your association with the likes of them.”

  Patrick bowed his head, hiding his momentary ire. He calmed his breathing, hoping the heat leaving his face meant his ruddy cheeks were slowly returning to their normal pale color.

  “I believe you’ve been working too hard. Take a few days and visit your family in Missoula. When you return, I’m sure you’ll see the correct action to take.” Samuel flicked his hand toward the door as a dismissal.

  Patrick rose, nodded and refrained from storming through the door as he would have preferred. Instead he quietly exited Samuel’s office, burying any evidence of rage or shame behind a mask of indifference.

  9

  Patrick stood outside the door to the home on Front Street in Missoula, his hand raised but frozen in place, refraining from rapping on the battered wood. From Rissa’s recent letters, he knew Colin visited his friend Ronan most evenings before heading home. Patrick had arrived after the smithy had closed and decided to pass by Ronan’s house on the way to Colin’s across the river. With his hand still hovering in front of the door, he glanced up and down the boardwalk, lowering his hand when uncertainty filled him. A bark of laughter floated through the door, and he canted forward, closing his eyes as long-ago memories flooded him. Colin teasing him. Colin telling a tall tale about someone from the smithy. Colin laughing with Da.

  Patrick placed his hand on the door as he made out the rumble of low voices. As though against his will, his hand slammed against the door a few times, demanding entrance into his brother’s life. He heard a groan and cajoling as boot steps sounded someone’s approach. Patrick knew from Clarissa’s letters that the other man, called Ronan O’Bara, was crippled and wouldn’t have made such noise.

  He stood tall, squaring his shoulders, as the door was flung open. His breath caught as Colin stood in front of him, then glanced over his shoulder as he called something to the man in the room. When Colin turned to face him, he studied him with a puzzled expression. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so, Col.” Patrick stood there, entreating Colin with his gaze for some sign of recognition.

  Colin shook his head, his lips upturning as Ronan made a wisecrack before Colin stilled. He froze as he studied Patrick from head to toe. “Patrick?” he whispered. “Patrick Sullivan?”

  At Patrick’s nod, Colin launched himself into his arms, grasping him in a bear hug and slapping his back a few times. He then let go and belted him in the shoulder, sending Patrick off-kilter.

  “Months! It’s been two months since Rissa saw you in Butte. Did you think to write us? To let us know you were coming? It was as though you disappeared again. How could you?” Colin glared at him before letting out another whoop and grabbing him in another hug, his anger and joy forging a battle for supremacy. Colin dragged Patrick inside, kicking the door shut with his heel.

  “Ro, this is my wandering brother, Patrick. Pat, this is my good friend, Ronan. His only defect is that he’s a horrible cribbage player.”

  Ronan laughed. “If I remember correctly, you’ve had to buy the drinks the last three times we went to the saloon.” Ronan rolled away from the table and the cribbage board to shake Patrick’s hand. “It’s nice to finally meet Colin’s and Clarissa’s brother.”

  “It’s nice to finally be here.” Patrick looked around the small room, the walls covered with tacked-up images from magazines of faraway places. A cot along one wall, two chairs, a small table and a miniscule wood stove made up the sparse furnishings. Patrick sat in the chair Ronan waved at, nodding his agreement to a glass of whiskey.

  “What happened, Pat? What took you so long to come to us?” Colin watched him with hurt blue eyes.

  “It’s not as easy as you believe to get time off of work.” He sighed, taking a sip of whiskey. “And I tried to write. But I didn’t know what to say after all these years.”

  “You could start with why you ran off.” Colin grunted as Ronan smacked him on his arm with a rolled-up newspaper.

  Patrick closed his eyes as though world-weary and shook his head.

  “Give him time, Col,” Ronan hissed. “So, Pat, what do you do in Butte?”

  Patrick’s eyes remained closed as he answered. “I work for Amalgamated. I work as one of their accountants, ensuring the ledgers are balanced properly and payroll is correct.” He opened his eyes upon noting the utter stillness in the room.

  Ronan gripped his glass to the point it looked like it would shatter in his hand, and Colin frowned.

  “You work for them?” Ronan asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “For them?”

  “Yes. They were willing to take a chance on me. Give me a decent job, with hopes for a promotion.”

  “With no thought of those you’d be hurting with your glorified job sitting in the Hennessy Building in Uptown,” Ronan said. “Crunching numbers and expanding their wealth as the men who break open the earth die for it underneath you.”

  “Please, not tonight,” Patrick said, setting his whiskey on the table before propping his face in his hands. “I just need a break from it all.”

  “There’s never a break from them. They are everywhere.” Ronan waved his arm around expansively, his rapid breathing a sign of his agitation. “They run the newspapers. They rule the judges and politicians. They run this state. The sooner you understand that, the better.”

  “I fear he’s correct,” Colin said. “Very little is done to rein
them in. As long as they provide jobs and produce a large amount of copper to spur along our rapid progress as a nation, no one will change the way things are.”

  “But what about the miners?” Patrick whispered. He looked up to see a flash of disbelief in Ronan’s eyes.

  “What about them?” Colin asked.

  “I wonder, as I look over the tallies, as I see the number injured or who’ve died, what happens to them?” He looked at Ronan. “Are they all cared for?”

  Ronan shook his head. “Few have as good a friends as I do. The union tries to see them cared for, but it’s losing its power, and not as many are willing to pay their dues.” Ronan shifted in his wheelchair. “Some bosses will find jobs aboveground for those who’ve been injured, but, if you’re truly crippled, there’s not much work you can do.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “You look ready to fall over, Pat. Do you want to stay with me?” Colin asked.

  “Would you mind?”

  Colin smiled, gripping Patrick’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Not at all, as long as you don’t care that it’s just two bachelors sharing a place. Minta comes by every few days to make sure it’s not a complete disaster, but, for the most part, it’s mine.” Colin looked toward Ronan. “Ro, sorry about interrupting cribbage. You’ll have to wait another day for your trouncing.”

  “You mean, I have to wait another day for my free trip to the saloon,” Ronan said with a laugh. He shook Patrick’s hand and rolled over to the door to see them out.

  When they stood in front of Ronan’s, Colin turned right toward Higgins. “It’s a short walk to my place. I live on the other side of the bridge, near Clarissa and Gabe, and Sav and Jeremy. They have new homes with most of the modern conveniences.”

  They walked down Higgins in a pleasant silence, Colin nodding here and there to those he knew. He picked up his pace, gripping Patrick’s arm to hasten him along, when Colin saw a rotund woman in a lime-colored dress make her way toward him.