Waters cut him off with a quick gesture. "Charity work's fine. I have no complaints on that account. I just don't want to see her at any more union functions."

  Visions of the burning cabin came to mind. Dietz felt compelled to answer, and when he did, it came from the heart. "Nor do I."

  Waters collected his papers from across the desk. "Good." Waters reached for the photograph sitting on the desk between them, breaking Dietz from his cold thoughts.

  "Mind if I keep this one?" Dietz asked, reaching for the picture first. "To show Keely. She hasn't seen any of me from the old days."

  Waters shrugged. "Fine." Evidently Waters wanted to demonstrate that he could be reasonable. "We do understand each other?"

  "Yes. And since we're making promises to each other—tell your boys to keep their rocks to themselves. I don't need any more of their calling cards littering my home." Dietz threw the accusation out to gauge Waters' reaction.

  "Rock?" Waters looked genuinely puzzled.

  "As in the kind that came sailing through my window last night."

  "I don't know anything about a rock." Waters actually sounded innocent, and maybe, a bit worried.

  Dietz guessed his concern leaned more toward being uninformed and losing some control over someone than out of any fear for Dietz's safety. But if Waters knew nothing about it, what did it mean and who had thrown it?

  "Probably just a prank," Waters said. "Now to more important matters. I've got an assignment for you."

  Chapter 10

  Dietz left Waters' office disturbed, head buzzing and swelled with too many thoughts to sort properly. Despite his resolve to remain detached, his emotions raged. Waters had set him on a delicate balancing walk where the consequences of falling didn't bear contemplating. Waters still didn't completely trust him. So his loyalty must be tested. Again. Damn.

  As Dietz walked past, Patterson stepped out of his store. Dietz locked step with him.

  "Allison." Dietz greeted Patterson.

  "McCullough." Patterson's eyes danced merrily. "How's the married boy this morning?"

  "Well-sexed and feeling like shit."

  Patterson laughed and cocked a speculative brow. "Guilty conscience?"

  Dietz shook his head. "It's all part of the job. One of the side benefits." Though Dietz laughed off Patterson's chastisement, he felt guilty for deceiving Keely—an emotion he didn't like and hadn't felt regarding the job before. "Worse. I've just come from Waters' office." Dietz snorted. "He's got a job for me."

  "Is that so?"

  "You already know about it?" Damn, Patterson. He always knew everything.

  "Waters is a suspicious man. He's been for testing you all along." Patterson spit on the ground, making a wet ring in the dusty road. "What's he want?"

  "So you don't know?" Dietz smiled. "Want to guess?" Dietz watched his feet as they walked, keeping his face low so no one could read his words.

  "If I were a betting man, I'd say Waters wants John Monihan, the manager of the Gem mine, dead."

  "Depending on the bet, you'd be a wealthy man."

  They reached the end of town. Patterson stopped walking.

  "Is this common knowledge?" Dietz stared up into the white pines covering the surrounding hills. A crow arced overhead, lazily riding the wind as it bellowed its raucous cry.

  "Common enough. Monihan's been warned."

  Dietz let out a sigh. Things weren't as bad as they seemed. "Waters is a fool. He told me no one else knew of the plan. I thought I was cornered. But if it's common knowledge, I can blame their nebulous spy for Joe's miraculous escape."

  Patterson shrugged and laughed good-naturedly. "You're going to have to make the attempt."

  "Yeah. But how? Waters is a fool. What does he think—that Monihan's going to come parading down the mountain for a drink in town at my request?" Dietz shook his head. "If Monihan has half a brain, nothing short of an earthquake is going to dislodge him from his stronghold. What am I supposed to do, storm the mine?"

  Patterson slapped him on the back. "You'll think of something."

  "Wonder what O'Brien thinks of Waters' games."

  "Waters is a loose cannon. I doubt O'Brien would approve, but once something's done, it's done. And getting rid of Monihan is going to have popular approval, I can tell you that now."

  "How much time you think I've got?" Dietz looked directly into Patterson's dark gaze. Patterson's eyes danced with amusement, like always, the cool-headed son of a bitch.

  Patterson shrugged. "How much time you want? I'd say we've got two, three weeks before something big blows."

  "Yeah." Dietz didn't like it, any of it. Patterson turned to leave. Dietz knew they shouldn't be appearing together in public too long or look too friendly, but Dietz couldn't let him leave without his curiosity being relieved. "What do you know about Michael Byrne's death?"

  Patterson looked startled by the sudden turn in the conversation. "Nothing directly. But that's not what you're asking, is it?"

  "Could it have been intentional?"

  Patterson's expression became serious. "Anything's possible, but you're asking, is it probable? I'd have to say yes. No one saw anything. That's what they're all claiming. Officially, Byrne's death is listed as an accident. You suspect otherwise."

  "It's only a theory. Any idea who would have done it?"

  "None at all. And that's the problem, isn't it? Caving a tunnel in on a man isn't the style of any of the union thugs I know. A slug to the back—yeah. Still, it smells suspicious." Patterson smiled again and gave him another pat on the shoulder. "Cheer up, boy. The mines are closed. You don't have to be worrying about being buried alive yourself." Patterson started off again, then paused to ask a final question. "Need anything from Wallace?"

  "No." But Dietz had other worries.

  Keely stood reverently at the side of the bed in her room, purposefully avoiding looking at the broken window beyond, or the mess littering the floor on the other side. Remember the wonder of last night, Keely, she told herself. Forget the ugliness. Let it wash away.

  In her right hand she held a broom poised for action, in the left a silent dustpan. She set the dustpan down and sentimentally ran her hand over the rumpled sheets. Oh, McCullough. She remembered violet eyes piercing her soul in the darkness, firm arms bracketing her, bracing him above her. She smiled at the memory of McCullough holding her and his intensity as they made love. She flipped back the top sheet. Her gaze landed on a rust brown stain in the center of the bed, muted by other evidence of their lovemaking. She leaned the broom against the night table and sighed as she stripped the bed. Silly, but she'd almost rather not wash these particular sheets, rather not destroy the proof of their coupling. But who kept such a trophy, and who had extra sheets to spare?

  Oh, McCullough. Such pleasant memories, such drastic intrusions, Ian McCullough and the rock.

  The room smelled of damp morning air, sweet and cool. A breeze blew in, ruffling the doily draped over the edge of the night table. Keely shivered, not wanting to look at the window, to see the fragmented remains, to remember the chill of the crash. Curses to whomever sent the rock sailing. Cold fingers of fear traced her back. Was the rock only a prank, a base form of charivari? If only she could believe that. But she remembered Michael and the threats only too well.

  She took a deep breath, recoiling from her own thoughts. Old Joe's cabin red in flame against the night came to mind, bringing with it the smell of singed air and fear so real it were as if the air carried it from the blackened remains of the cabin up the hill. Mr. Waters didn't like her, nor she him. But the look he gave her that night spoke of more than distaste. It issued a warning. Well, Mr. Waters be cursed. He wasn't going to stop her from doing the work Michael had started.

  The union was worthy and good. Good for the men, good for their families. Without it the owners would surely exploit them. After all, who were they but uneducated men with brawn and bravery enough to haul ore in damp, dark tunnels? Men foolhardy enough to play with dynamite for a living. The mining engineers and managers would always be well respected and well paid, but the men who did the work? Well, there would always be plenty enough of them willing to work for whatever petty price. At least that's how she imagined the owners thought.

  The union on the other hand fought for fair pay and honest, decent treatment of its members. But it was more than a labor union. It was a fraternity, a brotherhood. The union held dances and sponsored social events. The union used dues to pay medical expenses for its members. A lump swelled in her throat. She remembered a cold winter day and a wooden marker on the hill under the pines. The union even paid for funerals. She swallowed. It had paid for Michael's, despite the feelings of some that with his talk of peaceful negotiation with the owners he had turned traitor. Without the union, Michael would have been buried without a funeral. She could not afford one. She wiped a tear away and tossed the sheets next to the door.

  Last autumn a few violent men had infiltrated the union. Now they gained power fast and furious. She couldn't let them frighten her. Steeling herself, she walked around the bed and stared at the clutter on the floor. Shards of glass glittered in the sunlight, the broken edges reflecting brilliance like the facets of a diamond. In the center of the destruction lay a naked gray basalt rock, like any other that littered the surrounding hills. She half-expected to find a note wrapped around it, some definite warning. But it was bare, hideous and sinister only by virtue of its use.

  She tread cautiously across the floor, broken glass crunching under her boots, and picked up the rock. Suddenly reviled, she stood and impulsively hurled it with as much strength as she possessed out the hole it had made in her window. She watched it fly through the air and disappear into the dense woods behind the building, satisfied only when she heard the thud of its landing. Her eye caught sight of footprints in the small, soggy, flat patch of ground between the house and the hill. Her gaze followed them from around the corner of the building, back around to her window, and then to where they disappeared up the hill.

  She began to tremble, first with fear, then with anger. Whatever the rock meant, she wouldn't let it defeat her. She retrieved the broom and swept up. The dustpan trembled as she filled it, matching the meter of her tremulous thoughts. She loathed whoever had meant to ruin her wedding night. On her way out of the room, she picked up the sheets. She dumped them into the washtub to soak, emptied the glass into the garbage, and spun around to nearly collide with McCullough.

  "Hello, lass."

  "Oh, McCullough!" He smelled good. He looked good. She dropped the dustpan and fell into his arms.

  "You've been cleaning up, I see. You should have left it to me."

  She pulled away enough to look up at him. He watched her with an intense expression.

  "You're upset," he said.

  "Footprints," she said somewhat cryptically, but McCullough seemed to know what she meant.

  "I know, lass. I tracked them up the hill to an empty whiskey bottle. After that, I lost them in the underbrush."

  "So our vandal was just a drunk?"

  He pulled her back against him and cradled her head against his chest. "Seems so."

  McCullough didn't sound convinced. Though she wanted to know if Mr. Waters had said anything about the incident, she didn't press McCullough for information. Whatever he thought, he preferred to keep to himself, and she preferred not to think about. Not at this minute. Not while pressed against McCullough.

  "What are you about this morning?" she asked.

  "I thought I'd go upstairs to the room. I've got some thinking and planning to do. I'll fix the window later."

  "The bed's not made." She didn't know what had made her say it. It seemed more than that she didn't want him thinking she wasn't a fit housekeeper.

  "Isn't it, lass?" His eyes sparkled and his voice went thick. She blushed. "Seems a shame to waste an unmade bed."

  "Aye, it does."

  "What are we waiting for, Mrs. McCullough?"

  "For you to lead the way."

  Dietz acted the role of new husband too well, feeling the strong desire to repeatedly bed Keely. He didn't understand his powerful feelings. He was no virgin, nor had he ever been particularly deprived. And he knew full well the consequences of his actions. If he didn't restrain himself, he would get her with child, and soon. Yet, consumed with desire, he could not stop himself.

  Naked, Keely rolled away from him, and sat and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Dietz propped up on an elbow and admired her shapely rump, the curve of her back, the smooth, unblemished skin of her shoulders. Keely did, indeed, believe in giving him an eyeful. She turned to look back at him over her shoulder. As she did so, the point of one breast peeked past the arm at her side. He always had loved breasts. Her smile sent him over the edge. Though he had exploded inside her just minutes before, he became aroused again and reached for her.

  She laughed and slid out of his reach, coy thing. "I've work to do, McCullough."

  "You do indeed."

  She turned to face him, standing boldly before him. "Not that kind. Not again until the night. What will the men think of all the thumping going on in here in the middle of the day?"

  "You don't want to know."

  She stooped to look for her underthings in the jumble of discarded clothes on the floor. Her breasts bounced nicely as she did. She found her chemise, poised it over her head, then dropped it abruptly as something on the floor caught her attention. "Oh, I hadn't even noticed before. Your saddlebag spilled." Her frown turned to a laugh. "We must have bumped the table it rested on as we wrestled our clothes off." She giggled. "Funny what can distract one's attention so they don't notice things." She knelt. "I'll just straighten it up."

  He couldn't let her see the photograph of McCullough he'd stuffed in the bag after leaving Waters. He hadn't wanted Waters showing the blasted thing all over town. He may have been able to fool Waters, but how many others would notice the differences between the two men? Dietz felt certain Keely would. Damn. Why hadn't he hidden the thing?

  Dietz rolled out of bed, and had her by the hand, stopping her in seconds. Heart pounding, he shoved the paraphernalia back in as she watched him, curious, and bemused. He'd aroused her suspicions.

  Then, because he couldn't think of anything to distract her, certainly nothing as pleasant, he caught her and made love to her again, right there on the floor. When they finished, he looked her in the eye. "I'm taking you to Spokane and soon, Mrs. McCullough, to buy you gowns that make you look as pretty dressed as naked."

  She laughed. The sound, which should have made him happy, gave him only bittersweet joy.

  "Waters told me to keep my wife at home." A look of concern flitted across Keely's face. Was she afraid of Waters? Did she suspect him of being involved with Michael's death? Or was she afraid he'd obey Waters? Dietz hugged her close to reassure her. "What do you say we make a show of this trip, just to prove to Waters I have no intention of keeping such a fine woman home?"

  She smiled at him, looking more at ease. "Aye."

  "Keely." He suddenly needed to explain. "I told him I couldn't restrain you from your charity work. I have no intention of making you any kind of hostage."

  "I love you, McCullough." She kissed him, cutting off the warning he meant to issue. He'd have to tell her later.

  The next day McCullough made good on his promise. Keely found herself in the big city, heart of the Inland Empire, Spokane, Washington. Electric streetcars, emblazoned with the Washington Water Power name across the side, buzzed along the roads, chasing horses and carriages out of their way. In every way Spokane embodied the idea of a modern city.

  Three years earlier most of the city had burned to the ground. Now, everything was rebuilt, new, modern, and clean. Electricity illuminated shop lights and powered the streetcars. The Washington Water Power Company provided all the electricity in town. Signs and advertisements boasted its state-of-the-art service. Just the year before the company had completed the Monroe Street Station, harnessing the mighty force of the Spokane Falls that tumbled through the heart of the city, damming the once free-flowing Spokane River.

  Coming from Gem, where outhouses hung over the creek comprised the city sewage system, wearing a worn, out of fashion work gown, Keely felt like she had suddenly stepped out of the previous century. She hung on McCullough's arm as they strolled down the street, clinging to him, and admiring his composure and confidence as they walked toward the dress shop.

  The train ride in had been pleasant, the speed it traveled exhilarating. Keely had never had much occasion to travel, not even the distance of ninety miles to the big city. She scarcely rode the train at all, and never farther than Wallace. The short distance and the grade between Gem and Wallace didn't allow the trains to reach peak speed. Keely had felt like she was flying as the rail car sailed and bumped and hummed over the rails on the ride in, especially seated next to McCullough, who flirted and told stories she could hardly believe about life back East and truly big cities. Staring at him, hearing him speak, chased all rational thought away until she was caught up in nothing but him.

  Yet, McCullough seemed enigmatic. Something, some small fear about him resided in the back of her mind. Maybe it was only that she was too happy and could not let it be, or trust that it would last. She sighed. In McCullough, she could see nothing that Michael would have been unhappy with. But there had been a rift between them, a difference of opinion. What was it?

  Yesterday, after their loving when she bent to pick up the spilled contents of the saddlebag, McCullough's reaction had compounded her small sense of uneasiness. She was no fool. He didn't want her to see something in that bag. Union business? Something she wouldn't like? Or merely something not her business? She had been tempted to rifle through his things, especially the bag, but honor held her back.

  She looked to him and answered his smile as they strolled along. He was too handsome, too perfect, too worldly, too savvy, knew too perfectly what to say, almost an actor playing a role. Something about him didn't exactly match the man of the letters, and Michael's perceptions. But did it follow that personality perfectly exhibited itself in writing and the impression of others? Could it be that he was simply better in person? Silly fears. Why should she worry about being too content?