Leadville.

"Hiram, I need to see you, please."

Daniel stepped back to let his right-hand man through the door, then closed it, trading the smell of smoke and cheap liquor for the heavy odor of tobacco that hadn't left with the room's previous occupant. While taking an office next door to one of Leadville's many drinking establishments was not his first choice, neither was being choosy. With his time divided between Denver and Leadville, he preferred to leave the mine boss at the site and take his work into town. It was as much a matter of security in these poststrike days as a matter of convenience, since the bulk of his time was spent outside the mine shafts and inside offices, boardrooms, and the occasional opera hall or ballroom.

In the three years since he'd come to think of the small mining town as a second home, the population had burst the bounds of available accommodation, leaving little for decent office s.p.a.ce. With stories plastered in papers from the East Coast to the West of miners turning grubstakes into fortunes, Leadville had become known as the place where a man could arrive with nothing and leave a king.

The reality, however, was much different. Too many arrived, and too few found the rich silver veins they sought. Given the fact there were almost as many saloon girls as claim jumpers, fewer still kept what they found.

Daniel often thanked the Lord for His grace in allowing him to be one of those who managed to keep what he'd been blessed with. Today, however, he'd spent time with G.o.d on another matter before calling Hiram in.

Trouble at Beck Mines came in a variety of ways. Today, it arrived in the form of Jeb Sanders, an employee who never missed a day of work nor a night at the saloon. In between, he could be found holed up with two cousins, neither of whom appeared to be worth the gunpowder it would take to shoot them.

The three of them had partic.i.p.ated in the strike that ended last month, as had many of the employees. But while the others returned when the strike ended, Jeb had been the only Sanders to come back to his job. His cousins remained in town, which concerned Daniel. The Sanders family might be intending to settle some lingering issues with Beck Mines by less-than-legal means.

Thus his decision to a.s.sign Hiram to investigate the Sanders brothers, rather than Jim Carlson, the current mine boss. Carlson was a good man, but Daniel wanted someone outside the mine to see what went on inside. The better to see what might otherwise be missed.

Daniel paced as Hiram settled himself in the only chair that would hold his weight. "What's the news?" he asked his employee.

The chair creaked as Hiram shifted positions. "It's as you expected, sir. The pair who bought up the Finn's Creek property didn't exactly ask the owner if he wanted to sell. Got it on good authority it was the Sanders brothers."

"So Ben and Cole are claim jumping again," he said. "I shouldn't be surprised. I didn't figure they'd give up on the strike so easily."

"According to the law, they're not jumping." Hiram shrugged. "For every claim they register, they've got proof they paid for it."

Daniel's snort said what he thought of the idea. Downstairs a sporting girl's cra.s.s laughter punctuated the ensuing silence.

"I know," his second-in-command said, "but the law's the law."

Stopping at the window, Daniel surveyed the scene a floor below on Harrison Street, where good men plied their trades in everything from shoeing horses to selling foodstuffs. The real fortunes, however, were earned either below ground in the mines, or beyond the reach of the law in extortion or outright murder. Then there were those who orchestrated distrust and fanned the flames of discontent among the workers. It usually started small-an accident or two combined with rumors and false reports. Then came the work stoppages and, finally, the walkout. A mine without workers was as useless as a claim with no silver at all.

Two months ago, the chain of events had begun with a partial cave-in rumored to be caused by sabotage. Then came the complaints, first that pay was too low, and then that working conditions needed improvement. At the heart of each protest was Jeb Sanders, seemingly the self-appointed leader of the workers at the Beck mine. What Daniel couldn't figure out was whether Sanders was out for himself alone or for the good of the men.

Daniel frowned. "What landed the brothers in jail?"

"Bar fight," Hiram said.

Daniel turned to see his own expression of disbelief echoed on Hiram's face. "If they arrested every man who got into a bar fight in Leadville, I'd have no one on the payroll except you, Hiram. What about Jeb?"

"Still free."

"I see." Daniel turned back to the window. "And is he free because there is no evidence to hold him or because he's not under suspicion?"

"Could be either," Hiram said. "The deputy wouldn't say."

"What's Carlson's take on it?"

"He said he's the mine boss, but you're the owner. He's bowing to you on this one."

"All right, then." Daniel didn't have to think long in order to decide what to do. "Until Jeb Sanders is arrested or cleared, he will remain in the employ of the Beck mine. I'd rather have him where I can watch him than fire him and offer reason for retaliation. Besides, the strike didn't turn out like the men expected, so I doubt anyone's going to try something so soon after such a spectacular failure."

"That's good business," Hiram said.

It was, though everything in Daniel made him want to seek out the Sanders fellow and extract a pound of flesh for every wrong the trio had done to hard-working miners seeking nothing but their grubstakes and a few coins to send back to wherever they called home.

Daniel turned and caught his a.s.sistant checking his watch. "Have an appointment elsewhere, Hiram?"

"No sir," he said quickly, slapping on a repentant look. "I just don't want you to miss yours."

"With?"

Hiram reached for the ledger perched precariously on the edge of the desk and thumbed through the pages. "You've committed to a meeting of the Greater Leadville Beautification and Improvement Society." He swung his gaze in Daniel's direction and offered a blank stare. "A note states that Horace Tabor himself requested your attendance."

"Indeed?" Daniel resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at the mention of the town's wealthiest citizen. "Thank you, Hiram. Refresh my memory. What is the topic for this month's gathering? Are we discussing tidying up around the mine shafts, or will this be something of greater social and political importance?"

His a.s.sistant cleared his throat. "The stated agenda is this." He consulted the ledger a second time. "'Solutions to the pervasive att.i.tude of dissipation and lax morals among citizens and temporary residents of Leadville.' "

"While I welcome a solution to dissipation and lax morals, I fail to see how a meeting of the civic committee will solve what even the marshal and his men seem unable to do." Daniel shook his head. "And yet if Mr. Tabor has requested my attendance, how can I disappoint him?"

"Indeed. You're expected in ten minutes."

"Fine," Daniel said, "but we need to handle a few items first."

Half an hour later, Daniel slipped into the back row of the Tabor Opera House, hoping his late arrival would not be noticed. He had to learn to better budget his limited time in Leadville.

With all the work he had to do here, there was little time left for frivolity. The Greater Leadville committee certainly ranked as such, but when Horace Tabor beckoned, any Leadville businessman with good sense came running. For any lesser mortal, Daniel would have tossed the invitation in the trash.

Daniel looked up to find all eyes in the room directed at him. The speaker, an odious fellow named Pratt whose stay in Leadville was financed by the railroad, peered over wire-rimmed spectacles that had no lenses.

"Thank you for gifting us with your presence, Mr. Beck. I was just going over the particulars of a proposition I would like to see adopted by the city before I take my leave and return to Pittsburgh next week."

There was nothing to do but rise and tip his hat to the quartet of ladies and trio of gentlemen seated at a table center stage. "Forgive the lateness of my arrival," Daniel said, hating the requisite kowtowing. "I was otherwise detained. Please do not let me interrupt these important proceedings."

Only the marshal met his stare. From the lawman's expression, he wasn't thrilled to be here either.

As he returned to his seat, Daniel discreetly searched the room for Tabor. Horace, Colorado's lieutenant governor, was well known in Leadville as a patron of the arts and a shrewd businessman. Today, however, he was absent from the proceedings. Absent as well was any interest Daniel might have had in the discussion of how to improve the morals of Leadville's citizenry. While he tried as hard as the next fellow to live right and appreciate what the Lord had given him, turning that into a set of rules to impose on others chafed at him. Perhaps it felt too much like the life he'd left behind.

Or worse, the one he'd found, then lost.

"So, Mr. Beck, can we count on your support with this measure?"

Daniel jolted to attention. Again, all eyes were on him. Again, he rose. "I'd need to know more before I could say."

Like what I missed.

"What more is there to know?" Minnie Strong, wife of the livery owner, asked.

"You do realize I'm only a part-time resident of Leadville. My home and family are in Denver."

"What does that matter?" Mrs. Strong's eyes narrowed. "Somebody's got to start acting right, else we'll all fall to ruin."

He offered his best smile to the elderly woman. "Indeed," he said, "and on that, you can count on my full support. Now if you'll excuse me, I've another appointment."

In truth, he'd just decided his appointment was with a train headed to Denver. A quick visit, and he'd return in better humor. In the meantime, there was nothing here in Leadville that Hiram couldn't handle. Unfortunately, he returned to his office to find his hopes of leaving Leadville anytime soon dashed.

Not only had there been a flood in the eastern shaft that nearly cost him half a dozen men, but in the ensuing chaos, a wagonload of firewood had gone careening downhill when the mules pulling it got spooked.

Daniel took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Tell me, Hiram, how long was I away?"

His second-in-command shrugged. "Half hour, forty-five minutes, maybe."

"And all of this..."

He walked to the window and looked past the traffic on Leadville's main thoroughfare to the mines situated on the easternmost range. Smoke billowed from chimneys, touching the low-hanging clouds, and the smelters belched enough foul scent to cover the town. To all outward appearances, there was nothing out of the ordinary happening at Beck Mines.

A commotion across the way caught Daniel's eye. From saloons on either side of the narrow frame building, men swarmed into the street. "What's going on over at the jailhouse?"

"I'll go see," Hiram said, his chair sc.r.a.ping against the already-worn wooden planks.

Barely nodding, Daniel turned back to his work. While Denver called, so did the Beck Mines.

A few minutes later, Hiram bolted through the door. "Someone let the Sanders brothers out of jail, and it wasn't the deputy," he said, struggling to catch his breath.

Daniel let a production report fall to the desktop. "How do you know this?"

"The sheriff found him heels up next to the empty cell." Hiram let out a long breath. "A single bullet sent him on to glory. Looks like he never saw it coming."

"And Jeb?" Daniel asked.

Hiram shrugged. "Jumped aboard the firewood wagon up at the mine and kept it from going over the edge. Got banged up a bit but nothing permanent. That's all I know."

"So unless he somehow slipped away during the excitement, it's likely these boys had someone else helping them."

Hiram dropped into the chair across from him. "It appears so."

Considering Daniel didn't know Jeb Sanders except by name, the relief he felt seemed misplaced. But knowing one of his men didn't cause the death of a deputy did matter.

"It's the eighteen eighties, for crying out loud. Things ought to be civilized by now," Hiram commented.

"I suppose," Daniel said. "Maybe the committee is onto something with their campaign to rid the city of its more unsavory element."

Now that the trains between Denver and Leadville shortened the trip significantly, he'd like nothing better than to have Charlotte with him when he made his visits to the mine. Even with Elias and the new governess for supervision, Daniel had his doubts as to how much longer Charlotte could be trusted with the friends she'd made in Denver without his presence.

But until the day Leadville proved safe enough, Daniel would have to rely on the new Miss McTaggart to take Charlotte in hand and teach her what it meant to be a proper young lady.

As Hiram slipped out of the office, Daniel's thoughts drifted to the letter that had ruined his last day in Denver. The one from his father, which he'd finally read.

The earl had put Daniel on notice of his impending visit to the States, and had specifically demanded that Charlotte be brought for an audience.

He would expect the child to be a lady. To bring an overall-clad imp would risk his rejecting Charlotte. And while the old man's opinions weren't worth spit to Daniel, the ten-year-old had lived through too many losses to add her grandfather to the list.

He'd have to figure out a way around it. Perhaps a letter begging the girl's age as a reason for not traveling east with her. It might work, except that her mother had brought her all the way from England with no permanent harm done.

Then it came to him. "Of course," he said softly as he reached for pen and paper. She was his child, and he didn't have to respond to the demands of a bitter old man.

Try as he might, however, Daniel could not write the words his thoughts demanded. Instead, he penned a perfunctory note of acceptance, allowing for the fact the old man might change his mind.

Praying for it.

While she waited, Mae gave some thought to what life in the big city of Deadwood would be like. Hot meals and soft beds, warm fires and cool evening breezes. Likely she'd find no further need to run or be her own protector. No, she thought as she checked the number of bullets in each of her three weapons, she'd be safe as a bug in a rug.

It sounded just awful.

She sighted down her pistol. Sometimes what a person wishes for is neither what they really want nor what they need.

Sometimes, it's the wishing that's the best part.

And right now, with her target coming into range, Mae wished for Henry.

Gennie perched on the edge of the buggy's seat as much to get a better look at the scene unfolding before her as to be ready to jump and run if need be. Several seemingly upstanding citizens and two officers of the law had vouched for the ident.i.ty of the man who called himself Elias Howe and the urchin known as Charlie Beck.

As to her ident.i.ty, Gennie was not proud to admit she'd allowed them to believe she was the newest McTaggart in the household. There would be time enough to tell the truth, but Daniel Beck must be informed first. He could tell the child and his staff members. This, after all, was his purview, not hers.

Glancing to her left, Gennie noted the child's pout and decided that whoever was in charge of the imp would have to form an immunity to the expression, lest she be taken in. Wide eyes and a tiny, upturned nose completed the profile of what could have been an angel had Gennie not known the truth.

She moved her attention to the straight back of the older man in odd clothing. A dress coat that appeared to be a neatly pressed yet greatly patched Confederate uniform offered an interesting contrast to the formal hat perched atop gray curls. Were he not seated next to the driver in a coach of some expense, Gennie might have pegged Elias Howe for one without a home or means of his own.

As if he felt her gaze on him, Elias Howe swiveled in his seat. "This here's Lawrence Street, Miss McTaggart," he said. "It's not New York City, but we've got plenty of modern conveniences."

Gennie noted such ill.u.s.trious establishments as the Denver Fur Company and Joslin's Dry Goods wedged among the numerous storefronts of the mud-filled thoroughfare. "Are those telegraph poles?" She resisted the urge to point. "And there, are those streetlights?"

Mr. Howe chuckled. "You sound surprised we have such a thing." He winked. "Been ten years almost since that was news."

"I see."

Before her was a scene that could have taken place in any city. A solid-looking bank dominated the block, competing for s.p.a.ce among the other surprisingly civilized establishments. Women and men wearing clothing that could have come from the better stores in Manhattan strolled along sidewalks and picked their way across the wide street. Coming and going on both sides of the street were horse-drawn streetcars filled to capacity with well-dressed city folk.

Mae Winslow would stick out like a sore thumb on these civilized streets. It was terribly disheartening.

"Won't be long now," Elias said over his shoulder. "I reckon you'll find Mr. Beck's place comfortable enough."

Gennie bit back a quip about how short her stay would be and settled for a curt nod. Soon the true nanny would arrive and she'd be free to roam the wilderness, such as it was. Surely someone could offer insight into how she might find whatever remained of Mae Winslow's Wild West before Gennie had to board the train for her return trip to New York.