Her thoughts passed lightly over the current business. She had her own reasons for wanting the strike settled. She put the knife down and felt her stomach. No babe grew there yet. But, oh, she hoped there would be soon—when this business was finished. Then she and McCullough would have children of their own and love them and care for them like neither of them had been. McCullough had surprised her with his vulnerability. She would never have guessed about his past. It explained so much—his reluctance to talk about it, his independence.

  She picked the knife back up and began chopping again, thinking of his mother. Wretched woman! Was she still alive? McCullough hadn't said. No matter. McCullough belonged to Keely now and she meant to love him until all the scars of his past ceased being red and ugly and faded to thin white lines so faint that they didn't show or matter anymore. She loved that man. Nothing, nothing could ever change that.

  Keely unwrapped the towel from her freshly baked cake and set it on the blanket beneath her as she reached for the knife and plates. The picnic did not seem to be distracting McCullough from his worries as she had hoped, nor she from hers. Flooding the mines had done nothing to resolve the continuing conflict, nothing but further anger the owners who now vowed to extract restitution for the damage and prosecute the perpetrators. The tension in the Valley hung between them unspoken and heavy, made thicker by the worry that McCullough had been involved and would eventually be caught and taken from her, at least for a time.

  She continued her preparations, pulling from her basket a small bowl of delicate wild strawberries and handing them to McCullough.

  He popped one in his mouth and smiled. "When did you pick these—dawn?"

  She cut him a slice of cake and set it beside him. "I did."

  He shook his head. "You shouldn't have. It must have taken you hours." He eyed the bowl of tiny fruits, each strawberry no bigger than a good-sized blueberry.

  "Almost. I know of a good patch." She smiled at him. "Strawberries for the Fourth of July are a must, you know. There's nothing so sweet as a wild strawberry, and they only come once a year. The rest of the year one must be content with eating them in jam." So much to say, such inane conversation. She watched him eat his cake, wishing away the worry lines etching his face these last days, but they persisted. Finally, she had to speak.

  "What's bothering you, McCullough? The union problems?"

  His answering gaze, dark with intensity, frightened her. "I don't mean to frighten you, but you know things have gone too far to settle peacefully." He paused, took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. "I can't stop it. I can no longer pretend that I can."

  A hawk cried out overhead, momentarily diverting his attention. He released her hand and looked up, watching it, his expression wistful, as if he wished he could fly away with it. Didn't they all?

  "I love you, Keely," he said suddenly. "I love you."

  She wondered at the force with which he spoke, at his repeating it. Her heart would have danced, but she felt something ominous behind the words, almost a warning.

  "I would never intentionally hurt you. Not if I could help it." He took her hand again and pressed it between his. "You have to believe me. You must remember that, no matter what happens. Promise." He did not ask, he commanded.

  "Of course." His words touched something deep and sentimental inside her, moved her almost to tears.

  Suddenly he laughed, but it didn't sound joyful. Derisive was the word that came to mind. "If only you knew the implication of your promise. You may regret it."

  "Never, McCullough." Emotion shook her voice, making it raspy and breathless.

  He looked as if he might kiss her. She certainly wanted him to, but he backed away.

  "I want you to understand that in the next few days, or weeks, I will appear to be doing things you disagree with. But believe me, it will be necessary. You'll have to trust me. Will you?"

  She would have promised him anything, and she did. Of course she trusted McCullough.

  He let out a pent-up breath. "Good." He stood, extended her his hand, and pulled her to her feet. "The first thing I'm going to do is buy you a train ticket out of the Valley, to Spokane. You should be safe there—"

  "No!"

  "Keely, you promised." He took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward his. "Your safety is the most important thing in the world to me. I have to protect you the only way I can. I'll set you up in the Rockport. When this thing is over, you can come home."

  She didn't know why she noticed, but he didn't mention sending for her. How would she know when to come home? It seemed a minor point. She let it slide, fighting to think of something to make him change his mind and let her stay. "I'll go graciously, but only when the danger becomes immediate. You give the word then and I'll fly leaving. I promise." Her voice broke. "I want to be with you as long as I can."

  He wore an unreadable expression, looking as if he fought to maintain a poker face. "All right, lass. I'll trust you on this one."

  She couldn't believe she had succeeded so easily. He pulled her into a kiss and then back down onto the blanket where he pushed up her skirts and made love to her cushioned by a mattress of pine needles and leaves while a hawk circled overhead, riding a thermal. She laughed to herself. She, too, was flying, inside, where it counted most.

  "Ian!" she screamed to the hawk and the white pines as she soared to a new height, to the pinnacle. Moments later he rolled off her. She adjusted her skirts, and gasped for breath, silently cursing the corset that restricted her lungs. McCullough's eyes shone brightly. His look devoured. He laughed, and this time he sounded happy.

  "You're flushed, lass."

  "And winded."

  "Did I do that to you?"

  "You and my corset." She wriggled her skirt down and adjusted her shirtwaist.

  "Do you like fireworks, lass?"

  "That's later tonight."

  He laughed again. Such a lovely sound. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her again. "Oh, I do love you, Keely."

  "I love you, too, McCullough."

  They finished their picnic and made their way back to town arm in arm. How lovely to look so innocent, like all they had done was picnic, to share such a secret. They were nearly home, standing on the boardwalk down the street from the boardinghouse when Keely heard horse riders approaching. From the tempo of the hoof beats they rode fast and furiously. She looked up in time to see them at the edge of town. McCullough must have seen them at the same instant.

  "What the—" he said.

  American flags hung from every building. Streamers looped between businesses. Suddenly the riders drew their guns. Keely realized their intent. But before she could scream or duck, they began shooting, riding up the street, taking deliberate aim, and filling each flag full of holes. McCullough pulled her back into the store they stood in before and pushed her to the ground.

  As suddenly as it began, it ended. The drumming hooves receded into silence.

  "There are your fireworks," McCullough said.

  She couldn't speak. A question formed on her lips, but could not escape.

  McCullough pulled her to her feet, reading her mind. "Not yet. It's not time to go yet."

  "Just a warning." Waters laughed, the same odd, grating guffawing Dietz had come to hate. Dietz supposed it was meant to be self-deprecating.

  "It was damned stupid. The owners have had enough warning to last a lifetime. Nothing, short of war, has, or will, change their minds. It only made us look bad." Tim O'Brien, president of the Central Union spoke as he fidgeted with his shirtsleeves. The room was hot and close and laced with tension palpable enough to run your fingers through.

  They packed into Waters' tiny office like cigars in a box, all rank, smelling of sweat, dust, and leather. Perspiration beaded on Waters' forehead, from heat or stress, Dietz could only guess. In all probability Waters didn't like being upbraided by the boss, someone who he considered his inferior in all respects. Besides Dietz, Waters, and O'Brien, Patterson, the judge, and Gaffney were present. They waited for the guest of honor to arrive, the reason for the meeting.

  "Shooting up the emblem of our nation, on its birthday for cripes sake, doesn't sit well with people, good cause or no. Have you seen the headline splashed in all of the newspapers? Union men desecrate flags!" O'Brien snorted. "Some way to generate sympathy."

  A knock on the office door interrupted O'Brien's tirade. A short, banty Irishman walked in wearing a grin Dietz couldn't describe as anything but sinister.

  "Ah, the man has arrived." Waters stood to greet the stranger. The men parted to let the newcomer through. "Come in, come in." Waters effused over the new arrival. "How was the ride?"

  "Hot and dusty."

  Waters laughed and slapped the man on the back. "Gentlemen, meet Dallas, our spy catcher." He looked overly pleased with himself. "The Butte Union sent us their best."

  Dallas laughed, evidently reveling in the praise and attention. Dietz inventoried the expressions of his fellow inmates of the tight, stale room. No one looked as pleased or impressed as Waters. O'Brien looked openly skeptical. Patterson's face was a mask. Dietz's own heart beat double-time. Besides being too close to Thompson's Falls for Dietz's tastes, he'd been through Butte with McCullough. Would the fellow recognize him? Dietz couldn't remember ever seeing Dallas before, and certainly he would remember a one-eyed man? But there had been so many towns, so many varied men, Dietz could not be positive.

  Waters made introductions around the room in pace with Dietz's inventory. Dallas bobbed his head, and shook hands as his gaze traversed the room. When Dietz's turn came, and Dallas' one eye looked into his, Dietz saw no recognition. His pulse slowed. Dietz did not believe the little Irish rooster could be such a good actor as to conceal a former acquaintance. Surprised recognition was not easy to suppress. Dallas's gaze drifted quickly over Dietz to Patterson, and lasted a moment longer than necessary.

  "This is Allison," Waters said.

  Dietz saw the look and suppressed a shudder. Patterson was under suspicion, but true to form, Patterson didn't flinch, or sweat any more than the heat required. He stood with his posture easy and his smile calm. Such a collected son of a bitch.

  "You see, O'Brien," Waters said. "Suspicion of a spy has fallen on the Gem Union. But we took immediate action. We'll find him, and soon, before the big plan goes into effect."

  The meeting lasted only minutes longer. Patterson and Dietz left together. It might not have been prudent, but Dietz felt compelled to speak with his fellow detective. He ambled alongside him as Patterson headed back to his store.

  "So what do you think of our spy catcher?" Dietz asked nonchalantly.

  "He's a one-eyed, two-legged, Irish hyena if ever there was one." Patterson laughed.

  "He suspects you, you know that."

  "Half the town suspects me, boy."

  "Suspicion flies like the crows around here, but mostly it's unfounded and irrational. Dallas is different. Dallas is dangerous. He's just ignorant, plodding, prying, and bullying enough to prove something."

  Patterson laughed again. "You warning me to keep my nose clean?"

  "Naw, I'm a mother hen. I'm worrying over you. Do you have an escape plan?"

  They'd reached the front of Patterson's store. Patterson stopped. "Thought maybe I'd just cut me a hole in the floor and disappear."

  Dietz frowned. "If you need me, I'm here."

  Patterson shook his head; the tiniest smile toyed with his lips. "Something happens to me and I have to leave, you check with Mrs. Shipley. She'll know as much as anyone about what I'm up to. Meantime, we watch each other's backs." Patterson paused. "You come through Butte on your way here?"

  Dietz nodded.

  "Then you've got as much reason as I do to be careful."

  Chapter 14

  The heat in the kitchen felt oppressive, too hot for any reasonable comfort at all. Keely wished for relief, but short of a dip upstream in Canyon Creek, which being mountain fed always felt cool, nothing could be done. She couldn't wade in town—too many prying, lascivious male eyes, too polluted with privy waste. And since the incident, she dared not wander anywhere. McCullough gave her free reign, though she felt him watching her, sensed his protectiveness. Her own fears kept her prisoner. Her worry didn't center on herself, but McCullough. Another slip up by her would endanger him.

  She looked out the window to the hot, dry hills. Even the white pines seemed to droop, weary in the heat. Dust covered the leaves of the underbrush like a sense of evil had floured the town. Keely shuddered in the heat and turned her thoughts elsewhere. Oh, for a sliver of ice! But the ice in the cellar had melted a month ago. There would be none until winter. The iceman from Wallace dared not come into town. Even train traffic had slowed to a near stop now that trouble seemed imminent. Those who could chose to avoid it. In Gem there was no escape. Fear lurked everywhere, in every corner and shadow. In every face she saw either fear or anticipation, depending on the personality and the situation.

  Through it all she chose to concentrate on her private joy in being McCullough's wife, to hope for the future. Even in those thoughts there was not complete satisfaction. McCullough looked worried and distracted. He indicated at every turn that his time was short. His manner confused her. He lived wildly, made love to her with abandon, drank, laughed, bought her things. He commented on the sunsets and told her private thoughts. He never struck her as fearful, or afraid, just certain. Certain that their time together grew short. It scared her beyond reason, yet she could in no way stop herself from enjoying every minute with him, and wondering.

  She finished punching down a loaf of bread she'd been making, and slapped it into the buttered pan, dreading the thought of firing up the oven. Just then Joe Murphy swung in through the door, looking wild and winded and pale with fright.

  "Where's McCullough?" he asked without preamble.

  "He's in the back room, resting."

  Murphy pushed past before she could stop him, almost before she'd finished speaking. He barged in on McCullough even as she tugged on Murphy's arm in an attempt to stop him.

  "Keel?" McCullough said sleepily, then saw Murphy. "Murphy, what the—" McCullough sat up.

  Keely loved the sight of him when he woke. Startled awake, hungover from too late a night of partying and lovemaking, his jaw firm and covered with stubble. Even in the worst case, McCullough never looked puffy-eyed or bleary with sleep like most people. He always woke instantly, always immediately alert. His gaze fell on her. She gave him an apologetic shrug. Man, how she loved those violet eyes of his.

  Murphy followed McCullough's gaze and scowled at her. "I got to talk to you alone, McCullough."

  "You can't burst in on my husband and then send me away, Mr. Murphy. You say what you have to in front of me," Keely said.

  "It's union business, ma'am." Murphy seemed suddenly to remember his manners.

  "My brother died because he was a union man, and I'm every bit as loyal as him." Keely refused to back down.

  This time McCullough shrugged. Good, he was letting her stay.

  "Shit," Murphy said.

  McCullough sat up. Keely tossed him the shirt thrown over the chair next to her and he pulled it on. Then he stood and pulled on a pair of pants as casually as he would pull on a pair of gloves. "What's bothering you, Murphy?"

  Murphy looked around furtively, as if he expected the walls to eavesdrop. When he spoke his voice barely qualified as a whisper. "I've just come from warning Allison. That damned Dallas has been in town inside three days and he's claiming he knows who our spy is."

  "Good." McCullough finished buttoning his shirt, the last of his perfectly muscled chest disappeared and Keely hoped she'd be able to concentrate better now. "You going to keep us in suspense?" McCullough asked.

  "That jackass. He thinks it's Allison. Our own recording secretary!" Murphy's voice pitched shrilly. He swallowed like he meant to gulp his panicked words back down. "It's ridiculous. But they've called a special meeting of the union." He swallowed again, almost for emphasis. "They mean to kill him tonight. I warned him to leave."

  McCullough speared him with a look. "It's your habit to warn spies?"

  Murphy stammered. "He swore he's innocent, and I believe him. He refuses to leave town, says he won't be a coward, that he must clear his good name."

  McCullough nodded. "If he's innocent, he has nothing to worry about—"

  "Innocent, or no, they want blood. They're going to kill someone. Look, I've noticed you and Allison together. I figured you're friends. Warn him, warn him to leave."

  McCullough's face went blank, as if he'd pulled on a mask. Keely held her breath, praying he would stay out of the trouble. As much as she liked Mr. Allison—

  "If Allison's made up his mind, he's made up his mind. You couldn't stop him, neither can I. Like I said, if he's innocent, he has nothing to worry about. If not, he knows the consequences. He swore a Molly Maguire oath, same as we all did, pledging his allegiance to the union, under penalty of death for betraying his brothers. If he is the spy, he deserves to die."

  Keely found her ice in McCullough's voice and the steely set of his face and eyes. Suddenly she felt like she did when submerged in the frigid waters of Canyon Creek on a hot day, chilled and gasping for breath, reaching for any warmth as she came to the surface.

  McCullough turned to look at her. "Keely, are you all right?"

  "Fine." How she spoke, she didn't know, but her response came out breathy and barely believable.

  "You'll be at the meeting tonight?" Murphy said.

  McCullough nodded.

  "Good. See you there." Murphy turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he had arrived.

  Keely stepped into McCullough and collapsed against him, listening to the reassuring drumbeat of his heart.

  "Must you go?" She didn't need to ask. She knew the answer. She felt him nod. "Will they kill Mr. Allison?"

  "If they have to."

  "He's a nice man." Why couldn't she think of something better to say? "Will the trial be fair?"