A Bride Worth More Than Diamonds (Preview)

Chapter One

The town of Trenton had never looked livelier. Bright pennants rippled in the spring breeze, ribbons of red and yellow strung high between posts along the main street. The smell of popcorn, roasted peanuts, and dust mingled in the air, and the faint call of the brass band carried clear as a church bell.

Coraline Sterling couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled so widely.

Her father, Frank Sterling, chuckled beside her as she tried to take it all in at once—the tents, the performers warming up, the painted wagons gleaming under the afternoon sun.

“Reckon you’ll wear your eyes out lookin’ at every which thing, Cora,” he said.

“I don’t aim to miss a thing,” she replied. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see a real circus, Pa. Ever since that article came through the paper—remember? With the elephant and the tightrope walker?”

He nodded, his weathered face creasing into a grin. “Couldn’t very well deny my girl her first circus, could I?”

Cora’s heart swelled. She knew he’d had to set work aside for this day trip—their ranch outside Ash Hollow didn’t stop needing tending just because the circus rolled through. But he’d surprised her this morning, hitching the wagon early and telling her to wear her Sunday dress.

Now she stood among laughter and sawdust, the world suddenly brighter than usual.

A familiar voice called her name from behind, warm and lilting. “Cora Sterling, I swear I’d have known that bonnet anywhere!”

Cora turned, startled—and then joy burst across her face. “Sadie?”

Her friend Sadie, once Sadie Brooks and now Mrs. Thomas Manning of Trenton, hurried toward her with a baby cradled against her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes dancing. She smelled faintly of milk and lilac soap.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Cora said, hugging her tightly. “You look wonderful.”

Sadie laughed. “Wonderful, do I? Thomas says I look sleep-deprived. But you—good heavens, you haven’t changed a lick. Still got that same spark in your eye.”

“Maybe a few more freckles,” Cora teased. “The sun’s been generous this spring.” She looked around. “Where’s Thomas?”

“He wanted to be here,” Sadie said, shifting the little boy on her hip, “but he’s traveling the circuit of the mines again. Says it’s best to see them with his own eyes rather than trust every foreman’s word.” She rolled her eyes fondly. “You know my husband—he worries more over those miners than he does his own supper.”

She turned to Cora’s father. “It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Sterling! I didn’t think we would see you until the next harvest.”

Frank grinned. “Cora’s the reason. She heard tell of elephants and wouldn’t rest till I brought her here myself.”

Sadie laughed, excited. “Well, she picked a fine day for it. This circus is the best thing Trenton’s seen since the railroad came through. Little James will see his first parade of clowns today, though I doubt he’ll remember it.”

Cora’s heart melted at the sight of the tiny face nestled against Sadie’s shoulder. “He’s beautiful, Sadie. He’s got your eyes.”

“He’s got his papa’s stubborn chin too,” Sadie replied fondly. “Heaven help him when he’s grown.”

They laughed together, easy and light, the way old friends do when time falls away. For a while, they wandered the fairgrounds—Frank bought them candy apples, and they ate them sitting on a rail fence near the big top while the brass band practiced a jaunty tune.

Cora bit into hers, the caramel sticking to her lips. “This must be what heaven smells like,” she said.

Sadie laughed. “Sticky and sweet?”

“Exactly.”

Frank leaned against the fence, watching the workers haul ropes and hammer stakes into place. “Takes a fair bit of grit to travel like that,” he mused. “A whole life on the road.”

“I prefer to set down roots,” Sadie said. “How can anyone raise a family that way?”

“Some of them are just down on their luck, chasing honest pay,” Frank said. “There’s honor in that.”

Cora’s gaze lingered on a group of men near the elephant enclosure. One of them—tall, broad-shouldered, his shirt rolled to the elbows—was brushing the animal’s flank, his movements steady and sure. He wore no hat, and the sunlight caught in his brown hair, turning it gold at the edges. She couldn’t see his face from where she stood, but something about his calm manner struck her.

“Pa,” she murmured, “look at that elephant. Isn’t she magnificent?”

Frank followed her gaze and smiled. “Magnificent and big enough to flatten our whole barn if she fancied to.”

Cora laughed, unable to look away. There was something so gentle in the animal’s eyes—and something just as gentle, she thought, in the man tending her.

The band struck up a lively tune, and the circus parade began. Acrobats twirled ribbons, horses pranced, and children shouted in delight.

Cora clapped and cheered, her heart swelling with the wonder of it all. For a little while, she forgot everything beyond this moment: the wide blue sky, the taste of sugar on her tongue, her friend’s laughter, and her father’s proud smile.

By the time the show ended, the sun had begun to lower behind the rooftops, washing the sky in rose and amber. The crowd drifted toward the town square where lanterns were being lit, the air sweet with roasted nuts and pipe smoke.

Frank patted her shoulder. “We best be heading home soon, girl. It’ll be dark before long.”

Cora hesitated, looking toward the tents. “Just one more peek, Pa. I want to see the elephant again before we go.”

He followed her gaze, indulgent. “All right, but don’t stray far. I’ll fetch the wagon around.”
“Thank you,” Cora said with a grin.

She gathered her skirts and started toward the animal pens, her boots crunching over dry straw and dirt. The sound of laughter faded behind her, replaced by the low rumble of the elephant’s breath and the creak of wagons settling for the night.

A cool breeze carried the scent of sawdust and lamp oil. Somewhere, a fiddle played faintly.

Cora picked her way over the hard-packed earth as she meandered between the tents, looking for the elephant’s pen. The twilight air carried the smell of hay, sweat, and sugar gone cold. From somewhere nearby came the steady thump of a hammer driving a stake, then the low murmur of men’s voices.

She found the elephant at last, her great shadow swaying behind the ropes. The animal blinked slowly and heavy-lidded, and Cora smiled in wonder. “Good evening, pretty girl,” she whispered, resting a hand against the rough railing. “I reckon you’ve had a long day too.”

The elephant huffed, a deep rumble that felt like it came from the earth itself. Cora laughed softly. The sound eased her, made her forget the growing darkness beyond the tents. She stayed there a moment longer, watching the creature’s trunk curl lazily in the lamplight.

Then a voice—slurred and low—broke the quiet.

“Well now, ain’t you a pretty thing to be out here alone.”

Cora turned sharply. A man stepped out from between two wagons, weaving slightly, his hat askew and his shirt stained dark with spilled drink. He was older, maybe in his thirties, his eyes unfocused but mean.

“I—my father’s just over yonder,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I was only—”

“Only admirin’ the animals?” He grinned, showing a gold tooth. “Ain’t no harm in that. But seems a shame to waste a fine evenin’ talkin’ to a beast.”

He took a step closer.

Cora’s heart thudded. “You’re drunk. Best you move along.” She turned to leave, but his hand shot out and caught her arm.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart.” His grip tightened. “Just wanted a bit of company.”

“Let me go!” She tried to jerk free, but his fingers dug in. Panic flared through her chest. She swung her free hand and struck him across the face. The slap cracked through the quiet.

He cursed, his breath sour. “Feisty, huh? I like that—”

“Let me go!” Her voice rose sharp and clear, cutting through the night. “Pa!”

He grabbed for her again, but before she could cry out once more, a shadow moved fast out of the dark.

There was a flash of motion—a solid fist connecting with a jaw—and the man stumbled backward, crashing into a water barrel.

Cora staggered away, gasping. Her eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight, and she saw him: the man from earlier, the one who’d brushed the elephant.

He was tall, broad through the shoulders, his shirt sleeves rolled high, and his jaw set like granite. The light from the lantern caught in his gray eyes—steady, cold, and watchful.

“Get up,” he said, voice low but edged with warning.

The drunk blinked, disoriented, then snarled and lunged.

“Look out!” Cora cried.

The stranger turned just as the man’s fist came flying. He ducked, driving his shoulder forward, catching the drunk square in the gut. They hit the dirt hard. The lantern swung wildly above them, casting shadows like whips across the canvas.

Cora pressed a hand to her mouth, fear and shock tumbling through her. The men scuffled—boots kicking up dust, the sound of fists meeting flesh. Then the drunk’s hat flew off, and his body went still as the stranger twisted his arm behind him and pushed him down.

“You’ve had enough,” the stranger said, breathing hard. “You so much as look at that lady again and I’ll see you sleepin’ it off in the sheriff’s cell.”

The man groaned, cursed under his breath, and finally scrambled up. His eyes darted from the stranger to Cora, then toward the approaching lanterns. “Ain’t worth the trouble,” he muttered, backing away. “Didn’t mean nothin’.”

He turned and staggered into the dark, disappearing between the tents.

Cora stood frozen, her heart pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears. She looked at her rescuer, trying to find words.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, straightening. His voice had softened, carrying a quiet steadiness that calmed her even as her hands shook.

“I—I think so,” she managed. “He just—”

“I saw.” He picked up her shawl from the ground and handed it to her. “Best keep close to your folks after dark. Not everyone around here’s decent once the whiskey starts talkin’.”

She took the shawl, her fingers brushing his. His touch was warm, calloused. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Before he could answer, voices called out from behind them—her father’s deep baritone and Thomas’s sharper tone.

“Cora! Where are you?”

“Over here!” she called, relieved.

Frank appeared first, his lantern swinging, Sadie close behind with baby James in her arms.

“What in heaven’s name happened?” Frank demanded, hurrying to his daughter’s side. He looked at the stranger, then at the scuffed dirt and the barrel tipped over. “You all right, girl?”

Cora nodded quickly. “I’m fine, Papa. A man—he was drunk—he tried to—”

“She’s safe now,” the stranger said quietly. “I happened to be nearby.”

Frank offered him his hand. “You’ve got my gratitude, sir. You stopped a bad thing from getting worse.”

The man shook it once, firm but humble. “Just did what needed doin’.”

Sadie adjusted the sleeping baby in her arms, her eyes wide with concern. “Good Lord, Cora. You poor thing. I can’t imagine how frightened you must’ve been.”

Cora tried to smile. “I’m all right now.”

Frank turned to the stranger, his expression softening. “What’s your name, son?”

The man hesitated a moment, wiping dust from his knuckles. “Sawyer,” he said finally. “Sawyer Hayes.”

“Where you from?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Sawyer replied. “Been travelin’ with the circus these past few weeks. Helpin’ with the stock, fixin’ wagons—whatever’s needed. But they’ll be movin’ on come Monday. I’ll be lookin’ for work again.”

Frank nodded slowly. “I’ll put in a good word for you with a friend of ours, if you’re the kind of man who don’t mind long hours and dirt under his nails.”

Cora looked between them, her pulse still fluttering. Sawyer’s voice was even, but she could tell he wasn’t used to much talk. There was a quiet strength about him—something solid, like the kind of man who’d rather listen than speak.

“I’m used to hard work,” he said simply. “What kind of job?”

“I own the Trenton Mines,” Frank replied. “I heard they’re short on hands since winter. If you want steady pay and honest labor, you might want to consider it.”

“I’ll add it to my letter to Thomas when I write to him next,” Sadie offered. “My husband is a shareholder in the mines.”

Sawyer nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Frank stepped forward, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “And if the mines don’t suit, you come to Ash Hollow. My ranch always has room for a good man.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sawyer said, meeting his gaze. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cora stood beside her father, her shawl clutched tight around her. Sawyer’s eyes flicked toward her—just for a heartbeat—and in that brief look, something unspoken passed between them. Gratitude, maybe. Curiosity. Something deeper that made her breath catch.

“Best get this young lady home,” Sawyer said, tipping his head to her. “She’s had enough excitement for one night.”

“You’re right about that,” Frank said.

Sawyer gave a final nod to Frank and Sadie, his gaze lingering on Cora for one last moment. It was a fleeting thing, that look, but it sent a warm, dizzy feeling spiraling through her. His gray eyes were cool as creek water, yet steady in a way that made her feel seen. She dropped her gaze, heart thudding, unsure why her cheeks burned under the soft light.

The lamplight traced the line of his shoulders as he disappeared into the shadows beyond the tents.

Cora watched him go, her pulse still uneven. She could still hear his voice in her head—steady, sure, the sound of safety after fear.

Chapter Two

One month later

The wind carried dust even down here in the valley, slipping through the narrow mouth of the silver mine like a ghost that refused to rest.

Sawyer Hayes wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve, smearing sweat and grit in one stroke. The air underground was thick—part damp, part smoke, part iron. When he lifted his lantern to the rough wall, it caught the glimmer of quartz veins running like silver lightning through the rock.

He’d been at the Trenton Mines for a month now. The circus had long since rolled on to Kansas, its wagons nothing more than a memory and a thin trail of hoof prints somewhere down the main road.

Sawyer hadn’t looked back.

The work was hard—harder than he’d expected.

Hank Patron, the foreman, had been the one to rope him in soon after he’d heard about the Trenton mines needing men. The man had swaggered through the circus grounds, talking up the mines like it was a golden ticket. It had seemed heaven-sent so directly after Sawyer had heard about it from the group he’d just met.

Hank had promised steady pay, clean bunkhouses, and ‘the easiest silver a man could mine.’ It wasn’t.

It wasn’t until Sawyer arrived that he learned Hank wasn’t recruiting for expansion. He was patchin’ holes left by men who’d walked away from the place, cursing the foreman’s name.

Still, it was a job, and that was better than drifting without direction and getting no pay.

The hours were long, and the pay wasn’t much to speak of, but the ache in his muscles at the end of each day was welcome. It dulled everything else—the ghosts of his past, the half-forgotten laughter of a child, the face of a woman with eyes the color of cornflowers.

Cora Sterling.

He didn’t mean to think of her. But sometimes, when he stopped to rest, and the lamplight hit a dust mote just right, he’d see that night again—the flash of fear in her eyes, the way her voice trembled when she thanked him. She’d looked delicate then, yet steady somehow, like the kind of woman who didn’t frighten easily.

He shook the thought loose and swung his pick. The sharp clang rang down the tunnel.

“Careful, Hayes,” came a voice behind him, laced with laughter. “You’ll bring the whole mountain down on our heads, swingin’ like that.”

Sawyer straightened, half-smiling. “Just tryin’ to earn my supper, Patrick.”

Patrick McAdams leaned on his shovel, freckles smudged with dust, hair the color of copper wire sticking out beneath his cap. He was a few years younger than Sawyer—quick to grin, slow to temper. The two of them had been bunking together in a narrow cabin since Sawyer first came aboard.

Patrick spat into the dirt. “Earnin’ supper’s one thing. Diggin’ your own grave’s another.”

“Noted.” Sawyer set down his pick and stretched his back until his spine cracked. “Feels like these tunnels get hotter every day.”

“They do,” Patrick said. “That’s what happens when the foreman don’t care how deep we go. Hank Patron’s got us diggin’ too close to the wet wall again. You see that leak in Section Four? The whole face was sweatin’ water this mornin’. One good rain, and half of it’ll cave in.”

Sawyer frowned. “You tell him?”

Patrick barked a humorless laugh. “Tell Hank? Might as well tell the wind. He don’t care long as the day’s quota’s met. Fella’s got the conscience of a coyote.”

Thomas had left his foreman in charge in his absence, but the man seemed to get drunk on his power the more time passed.

“Reckon the men’ll quit if it keeps up,” Sawyer said.

“Quit and starve, maybe.” Patrick’s grin faded. “Most of these boys can’t afford a week without pay. I heard tell Hank’s been dockin’ wages again too—sayin’ it’s for ‘damaged tools.’”

Sawyer ran a hand down his jaw, rough with a day’s stubble. “Ain’t right.”

“Right’s got nothin’ to do with it,” Patrick muttered. “This mine’s been rotten since before you showed up. Thomas Manning’s supposed to own the place, but he’s been off in Missouri on business. Left Hank runnin’ things. We get by, but only just.”

Sawyer picked up his lantern and started down the narrow shaft. “What about Coulter? He’s supposed to be the other partner.”

Patrick snorted. “Coulter? He’s in the books, sure, but I’ve never seen him down here. Folks say he stays in town, drinkin’ away profits that don’t belong to him.”

They worked in silence after that, the rhythmic sound of pickaxes echoing off the walls like a slow heartbeat. The deeper they went, the more oppressive the air grew. By noon, their shirts were soaked through.

When the whistle blew, the men filed out into the daylight like moles squinting at the sun. Sawyer blinked hard as he stepped into the glare. The valley spread wide around them—gray rock and scrub grass, a few cottonwoods huddled by the creek. Beyond that, the ridgeline rolled toward the horizon, pale blue beneath the haze.

Patrick dropped onto a boulder and pulled a tin lunch bucket from his pack. “You ever think about leavin’?” he asked, chewing a biscuit.

Sawyer sat beside him, unwrapping a piece of jerky. “Every day.”

“Then why stay?”

Sawyer’s eyes drifted toward the ridge, where the sky melted into gold. “Because movin’ on don’t fix what’s behind you. It just gives you different ground to walk over.”

Patrick chewed in silence a moment, then grinned. “You’re full of those preacher sayings, Hayes. Must’ve had a fine education somewhere.”

“Something like that,” Sawyer said dryly.

Patrick tossed him an apple. “Here. You look like you need somethin’ that ain’t dust and sorrow.”

Sawyer caught it easily, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “Appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. Just don’t start thinkin’ too hard on whatever’s rattlin’ in that head of yours.”

Sawyer arched a brow. “What makes you think I was?”

“Because I’ve seen that look before. You go all quiet, eyes far off. I know you by now. It ain’t about the mine, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Patrick chuckled softly. “Thought so. Must be that woman.”

Sawyer’s mouth twitched. “There’s always a woman in a man’s past, McAdams. Don’t mean she’s still there.”

Patrick shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s been a month, and you’re still seein’ her ghost now and again.”

Sawyer turned the apple over in his hand. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “But ghosts don’t stick around long in places like this.”

The conversation turned to other things, and they laughed and joked while they ate.

The whistle blew again, sharp and insistent.

Patrick sighed. “Back to the pit.”

They rose and trudged toward the shaft entrance, boots crunching on loose gravel. The foreman, Hank Patron, stood by the main beam barking orders. He was a thick man, shoulders like an ox, with a face perpetually red from whiskey. His voice carried like thunder.

“You there, Hayes! Quit dawdlin’! You ain’t paid to stare at the sky.”

Sawyer met his gaze without flinching. “Just finished eatin’, sir.”

“Then you best start earnin’ that meal,” Hank snapped. “Section Four’s behind schedule, and if you’re late again, you’ll feel it in your pay.”

Patrick muttered under his breath, “Feel it in your pay, my hide.”

Sawyer nudged him slightly. “Let it go.”

But inside, anger burned low and steady, same as the lamp fire underground. He’d seen men like Hank before—men who mistook cruelty for authority.

The rest of the day passed in grinding rhythm—pick, shovel, haul, repeat.

By the time dusk bled across the ridge, Sawyer’s arms ached so badly he could barely lift them. The men stumbled back to their cabins, faces gray with exhaustion.

Inside their one-room shack, Patrick collapsed onto his cot. “If I die in my sleep, bury me with my boots on,” he groaned.

Sawyer chuckled faintly. “I’ll see to it.” He heated the leftover stew from the night before while Patrick groaned and complained. Sawyer only chuckled. Patrick could be dramatic, but he had good bones and always worked hard despite his grumbling.

That was what Sawyer liked about him. At his core, Patrick was a reliable, decent man.
He ladled stew from the pot hanging over the small stove and handed Patrick a tin bowl. They ate in companionable silence. Outside, a coyote yipped somewhere near the creek, answered by another farther off.

Patrick set down his bowl. “You think it’ll always be like this?”

Sawyer leaned back, stretching his legs. “It don’t have to be. A man just has to find his way out.”

Patrick nodded, eyes half-closed. “You think you’ll find yours?”

“Maybe,” Sawyer said softly. “Someday.”

But he wasn’t the kind of man who believed in dreams anymore.

*

Every new day started in the same way. They got up early, washed as best they could, and got dressed before they headed toward the mines. They picked up their tools, headed into the darkness of the tunnels with nothing but lamplight, and started working.

Sawyer liked the routine, knowing every day what was coming, what to expect, where he was supposed to be. There was a kind of certainty in routine that meant a man could breathe without thinking too hard about survival.
    The sound of pickaxes had become a kind of heartbeat to Sawyer—steady, predictable, and loud enough to drown out thought. So when it stopped one morning, replaced by a murmur that swelled like wind before a storm, he knew something had changed.

Patrick jogged up beside him, shovel in hand. “You hear the talk?”

Sawyer straightened, squinting toward the main tunnel where men clustered in tight knots. “Depends what talk you mean.”

“They say Hank Patron’s out,” Patrick said, eyes wide. “Fired, packed, and sent on his way not an hour ago.”

Sawyer’s brows lifted. “Fired?”

“Gone, for good.” Patrick’s grin was half disbelief, half delight. “Ain’t every day you see a man like that get what’s due him.”

They started toward the entrance, passing a line of miners whispering between swings of their tools. The news traveled fast.

At the mouth of the mine, a foreman’s assistant nailed a notice to the post. The paper flapped in the breeze, ink still fresh:

To all employees of the Trenton mines at Manning & Co.

Effective immediately, Mr. Hank Patron has been relieved of duty. Future matters of supervision and pay will be managed directly by the owners. A meeting will be held this afternoon to discuss forthcoming improvements.

— Thomas R. Manning

Patrick whistled low. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like the prodigal owner finally came home. This must have been the longest month in recorded history.”

Sawyer folded his arms. “Reckon it’s about time. With Hank at the helm, I doubt we would have managed much longer.”

They lingered a moment, watching the men’s faces—some cautious, some openly hopeful. Hope was a rare thing in a place like this. It looked out of place among all the grime.

Patrick elbowed him lightly. “Maybe things are fixin’ to turn.”

“Maybe,” Sawyer said, though he didn’t trust change until he saw it hold.

By midafternoon, the sun beat down like punishment. The miners gathered outside the main office—a squat wooden building at the edge of the slope. The air buzzed with murmurs and the scrape of boots in dirt.
    Thomas Manning stood on the porch, hat in hand. He’d heard men describe him in his absence—a steady, good-hearted man. He was tall but unassuming, the kind of authority that didn’t need to shout. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his face tanned from travel, and though exhaustion shadowed his eyes, his voice was clear when he spoke.

Coulter Cobbs, his business partner and the one who’d been in charge until now, stood next to him looking like a sullen child.

“Men,” Thomas began, “I owe you an apology.”

That alone drew every eye.

“I left this place in the hands of a man I trusted, and I’ve learned he misused that trust,” he continued. He glanced at Cobbs, who only scowled, before he continued, “There’ve been irregularities in the ledgers—money missing from wages, supplies gone unaccounted for. You’ve been cheated, and I mean to see it made right.”

A low murmur swept the crowd. Patrick muttered under his breath, “Didn’t think I’d live to hear a boss say that.”

Thomas raised a hand. “Starting next week, all pay will be restored to full measure, and back wages will be issued once I’ve finished the audit. More importantly, we’ll be changing how things are run. Safety comes first. No more shortcuts. No more ignored warnings. Mr. Cobbs and I are serious about setting things straight and running this mine the way it should be run. You have my word.” Cobbs didn’t look like he agreed with that statement, but he said nothing. He held the minority share in the mine and answered to Thomas just like Hank and everyone else.

Someone in the back called out, “What about the wet wall in Section Four?”

Thomas nodded. “Already seen it myself this morning. Repairs start tomorrow.”

Patrick turned to Sawyer, half-grinning. “Well, I’ll be. The man’s serious.”

Sawyer said nothing, but a faint respect stirred in him. Thomas Manning wasn’t like the bosses he’d known before—men who filled their pockets while others risked their lives.

The meeting ended with the men scattering in small groups, voices lively for the first time in months.

Sawyer lingered by the fence, running his thumb along the handle of his pickaxe, lost in thought.

“Hayes.”

He turned. Thomas was crossing the yard toward him, dust trailing behind his boots.

“Sir,” Sawyer greeted, removing his hat.

“You’ve been with us a month now, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve heard good things about your work here. Your character. And after what happened at the circus, I know it’s true. You put others before yourself and you do what’s expected of you,” Thomas said, extending his hand to shake Sawyer’s in greeting. “Patrick McAdams speaks highly of you. Says you work steady and don’t grumble.”

Sawyer hesitated, then shook the outstretched hand. “I do what needs doin’.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Thomas smiled faintly. “Truth is, I could use a man like you. Someone the others trust. Things have gone bad here—morale, safety, everything—and it’ll take more than one man to turn it around. When I heard about what’s going on, I thought about you immediately. You’re the man for the job. Think you’d be interested in helping me set things straight?”

Sawyer studied him a long moment. “I don’t know much about runnin’ a mine, sir.”

“You know about workin’ honest,” Thomas said simply. “That’s a start. You’d report to me directly. Keep an eye on things, make sure the men are treated fair. If trouble stirs, I want to hear it from you first.”

The offer surprised him. “Why me?”

Thomas’s gaze held his. “Because I heard about the way you handled Patron when he barked at you that first week. You didn’t flinch, they say. You didn’t fight back. You just kept your head. That’s the kind of man I need.”

Sawyer’s throat tightened, though he didn’t show it. Praise wasn’t something he was used to. “If you think I can help, I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Thomas clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m headed home to my wife tonight. She deserves some of my attention—I’ve been away too long.” He grinned, and his eyes glinted in the way a man’s eyes glint when he has a woman waiting for him at home. “Come by the office during lunch tomorrow, and we’ll talk details. A raise will be in order, and I need the men to know you’re in charge. They’ll look up to someone they can trust.”

As Thomas walked away, Patrick appeared, grinning like a fool. “What’d he want?”

“Asked if I’d help him keep the place straight.”

Patrick gave a low whistle. “Well, look at you—movin’ up in the world.”

“Don’t start,” Sawyer warned, though there was humor in it.

“I’m just sayin’. Maybe this means we’ll finally get paid on time.”

“Or it means more work.”

Patrick shrugged. “Could be worse. Least the man’s got sense.”

“Yeah,” Sawyer said softly. “He does.”

They made their way back toward the cabins as twilight draped over the valley. For the first time in a long while, Sawyer felt something he’d almost forgotten—purpose.
He washed up at the pump before heading inside, the water shockingly cold on his face, and when he looked up, the fading light caught on the ridge beyond Trenton. Somewhere out there was Ash Hollow—the Sterlings’s home.

He hadn’t seen her since that night. But sometimes, when the evening settled quietly, he imagined her—the softness in her eyes, bright as sunlight through amber glass.

He wondered if she ever thought of him. Then he shook the notion loose, the way a man shakes off dust after a hard day’s work.

Patrick called from the door. “You comin’ or sleepin’ out there?”

Sawyer smiled faintly. “Comin’.”

Inside, the cabin smelled of stew and smoke. They ate shoulder to shoulder at the little table, the fire snapping in the stove.

He stared into the flames, that small flicker of hope taking root despite himself. For the first time in years, he wasn’t just surviving. He was part of something that might matter.

*

The next morning dawned clear, the kind of day that made the sky look like a bowl of polished glass. The men rose early, and the scent of coffee mingled with coal smoke drifting up from the cookhouse. Sawyer had been up since before the bell; his boots already caked with red dust by the time the others stumbled out. He’d promised Thomas he’d check the new support beams the men were erecting in the lower shaft, and he meant to do it before the day got hot. Thomas had asked a handful of men to get on it at the crack of dawn—the tunnel was in bad shape, and he didn’t want any accidents. He wasn’t the kind to leave everyone to work on their own, either. He was right there with them, already checking the different sections.

Patrick joined him at the mouth of the tunnel, yawning. “You sure you don’t want breakfast first?”

“Later,” Sawyer said. “Let’s get eyes on the timbering, first.”

They descended into the shaft, lanterns swinging, shadows moving over the rough walls. The air was thick with the smell of damp rock and oil. Farther down, Thomas’s voice echoed—a steady baritone giving instructions to the crew in Section Two. The man looked like he never sent others to do what he wouldn’t. That was one of the reasons Sawyer respected him.

“Morning, Hayes,” Thomas called when he spotted him during his rounds. “Everything look sound up top?”

“Seems fine, sir. I was just checking the new struts.”

“Good man. Tell me what you think.”
    Thomas crouched beside a set of timber posts where the wall had bowed slightly. He tapped one with his hand. “I don’t like that give. We’ll add another brace here before noon.”

“I can see to it,” Sawyer said.

Thomas nodded, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Do it. I want this section safe before the next shift.”

Patrick leaned against the wall. “You ever stop workin’, boss?”

Thomas laughed, good-naturedly. “Not while men are dependin’ on me, son. You’ll learn that when you’ve got mouths at home.”

Patrick grinned. “Guess I’ll have to find a woman first.”

Thomas chuckled. “Don’t rush it.” He started down the next tunnel, lantern bobbing in his hand. “I’ll check the ledgers after dinner, Sawyer. I’m still seeing you in your lunch hour, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Sawyer watched him go, feeling a quiet pride settle in his chest. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted him with more than the next swing of a pick.

He turned back to the struts, testing the timber with a steady push. “This one’s solid,” he told Patrick. “The next two’ll need shoring.”

Patrick nodded and moved off to fetch a new beam. The rhythm of work returned—steady, familiar. Then, beneath it, came a sound that didn’t belong.

A faint crack. Like a gunshot swallowed by the earth.

Sawyer froze. “Patrick. Hold up.”

Another crack—sharper, closer. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, and a chunk of gravel bounced off his boot. His gut tightened. “Get back!”

The warning came too late. The tunnel groaned—a deep, gut-turning sound that seemed to come from the bones of the mountain itself. Then the wall beside them buckled.

“Sawyer!” someone shouted.

He turned just as Thomas, halfway down the adjoining shaft, looked up. Their eyes met for an instant—then the roof gave way.

The collapse came fast. The roar swallowed everything—the crash of rock, the screams, the choking cloud of dust that blotted out the lantern light. Sawyer stumbled backward, his shoulder slammed against the wall. For a heartbeat, the world went black and silent.

When the dust settled enough to breathe, chaos took its place.

“Help!” a voice shouted from somewhere ahead. “Get a rope!”

Sawyer pushed to his feet, coughing, his ears ringing. The passage where Thomas had been moments ago was gone—sealed under a mound of broken rock and timber. The air reeked of earth and smoke.

He lunged forward, grabbing at loose stones, ignoring the burn in his arms. “Thomas!”

Patrick appeared beside him, eyes wide and white in the gloom. “God Almighty—he’s buried!”

“Help me dig!” Sawyer barked.

They clawed at the rubble, shovels forgotten. Other miners rushed in with picks and ropes, their faces ghostly under the dust. Someone shouted orders—someone else prayed aloud. But the more they dug, the clearer it became.

Patrick stopped, breathing hard. “Sawyer—look.”

A piece of lantern glass caught the light amid the rocks. Beneath it, a sleeve—brown, torn, still.

Sawyer’s hands went still. The noise around him dimmed to a hollow thrum in his ears. Thomas’s voice—alive, laughing—still echoed in his mind, overlapping with the silence that now stretched between them.

He stumbled back a step, chest tight. Patrick’s hand caught his shoulder. “There’s nothin’ you could’ve done.”

But Sawyer didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He turned away as the men gathered, hats in hand, faces drawn tight. The foreman from another shift began giving orders, sending runners to town for the doctor, though everyone knew it was useless.

Sawyer pushed out of the tunnel into the blinding daylight. The sudden brightness burned his eyes. He walked until the noise faded behind him and stopped by the ridge overlooking the creek. His hands were trembling.

He sank onto a rock, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, like a tide rolling back, the memories came.

A small cabin. Morning sunlight through thin curtains. A toddler’s laugh—bright and full of life—as Sawyer tossed him in the air and caught him again, the child’s tiny fingers gripping his beard. “Higher, Uncle Sawyer, higher!”

He’d laughed then, too. His sister’s voice from the doorway, teasing, gentle: “Careful, you’ll make him think he can fly.”

He’d turned, smiling at her, hair falling loose around her shoulders. “He already thinks that.”

The smell of cinnamon pies cooling on the windowsill. The sound of the boy’s boots on the wooden floor. Laughter spilling out like music.

Then—gunfire. Smoke. The taste of ash. The silence that followed.

Sawyer’s fists clenched against his knees.

He’d buried those memories deep, but grief had a way of digging them back up when the ground shifted. He’d tried to leave all that behind, thought the ache had settled into something dull and harmless. But watching another good man die—a man who’d been kind when he didn’t have to—had cracked the ground wide open again.

He lifted his gaze toward the far hills, where the wind moved through the grass like water.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough. “Why’s it always the good ones?”

Behind him, the bell at the mine rang slow and heavy, signaling what everyone already knew: a death underground.

Patrick’s voice carried faintly through the wind, calling his name. Sawyer didn’t turn. He couldn’t face them yet—not the pity in their eyes, not the futility of words like accident or God’s will.

He stood, dusted off his hands, and walked toward the ridge. The sky stretched endlessly above him, a cruel kind of beauty.

He didn’t pray. He’d stopped doing that long ago.