“Such a man doesn’t exist,” Flora snapped.
“Yes . . . he does.” Emma lifted her face to survey the women who depended on her for guidance, for leadership. Hope swelled in her breast along with a surge of newfound confidence—for she now had a plan. A plan that was sure to succeed because the man Aunt Henry spoke of had been fighting against injustice since the day he was born. “His name is Malachi Shaw.”
3
SOUTHERN MONTANA BORDER
BURLINGTON ROUTE CONSTRUCTION SITE
Malachi unwound the last foot of the fuse line, then examined the hole a final time. Depth looked good. Line was clear. No moisture. No debris to interfere with a clean run. Blast radius should be sufficient to break up the rock layers directly in line with the track path. He might have to lay a second charge to widen the area, but he’d make that decision after the rocks were cleared.
Scanning the area to make sure no one had ventured into the blast zone, Mal reached into his vest pocket and extracted a wooden matchstick.
“Fire in the hole!”
He struck the match head on the side of his boot, lit the fuse, and sprinted down the rocky incline as fast as the uneven terrain would allow. He counted in his head, knowing exactly how long he would have until the dynamite blew.
Five . . . six . . .
He zagged to the right to avoid the loose stones left over from a recent rockslide. Footing was everything.
Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .
He located the tree that marked the edge of the safety area. Only twenty yards to go.
Sweat dripped in his eyes. The sting distracted him. He blinked to clear his vision. His toe stubbed hard against a chunk of sandstone jutting up from the ground. He fell forward, his momentum hurling his torso ahead of his feet. Mal fought against instinct. Instead of bracing his arms to catch himself, he tucked his arms into his body and curled his head into his chest to execute a bone-jarring roll. He couldn’t afford to lose time with a sprawled landing. He had to keep moving.
Sixteen . . . seventeen . . .
The instant his feet came around, Mal popped back up and caught his balance even as he continued his wild descent. The marker tree loomed. Almost there.
Nineteen . . .
Mal dove. The explosion detonated. The earth convulsed. A deafening roar reverberated through his body, vibrating his bones even before he collided with the ground. He covered his head with his hands. Dust and debris poured over him. But nothing bigger than a pebble. He’d survived. Again.
Blood thundered through his veins, invigorating him with an energy that buzzed with triumph. Mal jumped to his feet, a smile splitting his face as he turned to survey his handiwork. Never did he feel more alive than in the moment he escaped death’s grasp.
Man, but he loved this job.
“You crazy coyote!”
Mal turned to see his gangly assistant running toward him. The kid was barely eighteen, an orphan—just like Mal—and far too eager to prove himself.
“I thought you were a goner for sure.” Zachary laughed as he reached his mentor. “Shoulda known better. Dynamite ain’t strong enough to take out Malachi Shaw. Nothin’ is.” He slapped Mal on the arm. “You gotta teach me how to roll like that.”
“Sure, kid. But only if you remember that dynamite is strong enough to take out anyone who doesn’t respect it. And even some who do.”
Mal thought of his own instructor—Three Finger Willy. The old coal miner had taught Mal everything he knew about working with black powder, nitro, and dynamite, never missing a chance to remind him about the time he lost two of his fingers in an ill-timed blast. Willy had lost more than a pair of fingers a couple years back when a faulty fuse failed to blow. He went back in to check it, only to have the smoldering line reignite and make him a permanent part of the mine tunnel he’d been expanding.
Working with explosives might help a man feel alive, but it was only because he constantly flirted with death.
“I’ll check out the blast site and give the all clear while you head back to camp to clean up.” Zachary gazed up at him like a pup eager for a pat or word of praise. His open admiration made Mal itch. He doubted he’d ever get used to the feeling, even as he continued hungering for it.