1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Floyd

Floyd Bennett was busy trying to choose between peach and strawberry jam when a few beads of sweat trickled down his brow and mixed with the coal powder on his skin, clouding his eyes and burning his vision. For the next couple of seconds, Floyd's eyes continued to sting, and he squeezed them shut to try to stop the pain. Saying it was hot for May would have been an understatement. It was a scorcher.

When Floyd moved to wipe his face with the sleeve of his coal-stained shirt, someone slammed into him from behind, knocking him forward a little.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry."

Arching an eyebrow, Floyd turned toward the unfamiliar voice. Someone he'd never seen before was looking up at him with what looked to be an earnest, if not slightly apologetic, smile. Floyd couldn't help but notice the man's eyes—both brown and green at the same time—and feel a little fascinated by them.

He watched those eyes flit over to the shelf behind him.

"Peach jam," the man said, wrinkling his nose. "Never cared for it. It's a little too sweet, in my opinion. Strawberry's not bad, though."

Without even waiting for a response, the man walked away, leaving Floyd to consider this stranger's opinion, one he hadn't even asked for. He turned back to the jam jars. Strawberry. Peach. He reached for the peach but hesitated and chose strawberry instead. Unsure whether or not he was even happy with his choice, Floyd left to find the stranger again.

Tall enough to see over the rows and rows of shelving, Floyd spotted the man easily a couple of aisles over. Pretending that he was browsing, Floyd followed and stopped in front of a section of canned soups a few feet away. He took notice of the way the stranger stuck out like a sore thumb in that fine clothing of his—a nicely tailored beige suit, complete with a brown silk tie and matching fedora—and wondered if he was from the city.

Could be that the fella was one of Don Chafin's men trying to sniff out folks who were trying to unionize. Floyd hadn't heard of that happening in Rock Creek yet, but still, his muscles tensed at the thought. Because the last thing Floyd needed was for that kind of uncertainty to make its way to Logan County—miners striking, families being forced out of their homes, folks losing work, fights breaking out. Unionizing seemed like it'd lead to a whole heap of trouble. Faced with that kind of chaos, Floyd would probably need to move his family elsewhere. Golly, he could barely even stomach the thought.

While Floyd was pretending to study the selection, the man moved to the next aisle. After placing a couple of cans of soup in his basket—the cheapest ones he could find—Floyd rounded the corner so that he could keep an eye on the stranger with the fancy-looking clothes. Lingering in front of the coffee tins, Floyd once again tried to look like he was working out which one to buy.

Out of the corner of his eye, Floyd watched the stranger walk up to the counter.

"Uhm, hello," the man said, catching the attention of Charlie Williams, the elderly fella who ran the company store. "I need to speak with Mister Donohue. Frederick, I mean. Frederick Donohue? I met with him in Charleston last week. We spoke about me starting to work for his coal company. He told me to come to the store today so that I could be set up with the proper housing and tools and, well, whatever else I might need. I kind of assumed he'd be the one to—"

"Oliver Astor?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Mister Donohue came here from Charleston yesterday to tell me 'bout you. We got room for you in the boardin' house."

Oliver would have to learn that everyone went to Charlie for everything, not Fred. Charlie had worked for Fred Donohue ever since the beginning. Whether you were converting currency or taking a loan or buying food from the store, Charlie was the one to talk to.

"Oh..." Oliver scrunched up his nose. "Frederick never mentioned a boarding house. I'd much prefer one of the single-family homes."

He'd prefer one of the single-family homes? Floyd wanted to tell this Oliver fella that he'd have to live wherever they told him to live. Housing was up to the company, not a miner.

"Do you got a family?" Charlie asked.

"Well, no."

Charlie crossed his arms over his chest, his patience clearly waning.

"Then I suppose you'll be livin' in the boardin' house."

Oliver let out a long sigh.

"Where's your telephone?" Oliver asked. "I'm sure I can clear this up with Frederick."

"We ain't got a telephone yet," Charlie said. "You can catch the train back to Charleston. I reckon they have a bunch in the city. You can call Mister Donohue's house from some business there."

Throwing his head back, Oliver let out a groan. Floyd had the impression that Oliver was someone who had never even had to share a closet, much less a bedroom, and certainly not with a bunch of other people. Floyd wasn't sure that Oliver'd even survive the boarding house.

"Aren't there over two hundred people living here? Why wouldn't there be a single fucking—" Floyd was already wincing from the swear word when Oliver seemed to catch himself, pausing for a moment before clearing his throat. "Why wouldn't there be a single telephone in the entire town?"

Floyd ran a hand over his face. Gosh, Oliver seemed lost. Floyd couldn't help but feel a tad sorry for him. Hadn't he ever been in the mountains before?

While Charlie and Oliver picked up bickering over the housing situation, Floyd considered how to help. He couldn't take listening to this no more.

"What about Fred's son?" Floyd asked, cutting in as he approached. "Ain't James got a telephone over at his place?"

Charlie sucked on his teeth, thinking this over.

"Can't say."

"Might as well check. He's probably home. He ain't never leave Rock Creek except on weekends. Not that I seen, anyway." Floyd came up next to Oliver. "I can take you."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Oliver said.

Floyd wasn't exactly in the mood for taking some uppity city fella across town, but he hated to think that Oliver might keep on bothering Charlie otherwise.

"It's a short walk."

"Oh, thank God," Oliver said, his shoulders relaxing and face brightening a little.

"Just need to pay for these," Floyd said before setting his basket on the counter.

While Charlie totaled the prices for the groceries, Floyd rocked back on his heels and tried not to think about the fact Oliver was staring—probably eyeing the coal powder coating near every inch of Floyd's skin and clothing. It felt strange to be looked at like that—like he was some sort of museum oddity. Floyd wondered whether Oliver had ever even seen a coal miner before.

After Charlie totaled the food items, Floyd reached into his pocket for some scrip—the currency issued by the coal company—and counted out the coins to pay.

Groceries paid for, Floyd took his poke from the counter and said, "Well, we better head out."

"Fine, yes," Oliver said, adjusting his hat. "Lead the way."

"Take care, Floyd," Charlie said after them.

Floyd held up his hand. "You, too, Charlie."

On the way out, Oliver stopped to study the hats on one of the hat racks.

"You know, these are pretty nice, considering," he said.

Considering what? Floyd wanted to ask but stopped himself. He wasn't exactly keen on listening to whatever Oliver would have to say on that subject. So, Floyd simply stood by while Oliver studied the selection for a bit before plucking one of the flat caps off its hook.

The moment Oliver removed his fedora, Floyd found himself mesmerized by Oliver's hair—blond like the color of wheat stalks. Not many men had light hair like that. Some kids, maybe, but not men. Just as Floyd started thinking on how soft it looked, Oliver fit the flat cap on his head and Floyd was left wondering where his own head was at.

"Why're you trying to be a miner?" Floyd asked, feeling the need for conversation.

"Just, you know, starting a new life," Oliver said before turning to face him. "What do you think? Not bad, right?" Floyd started to fumble through a response, but then Oliver plowed on like he had no real interest in Floyd's answer. "I noticed that people seem to be wearing flat caps here, not fedoras or bowlers. Maybe I'll fit in better if I buy one. I might have one already, come to think of it. I honestly can't remember. I'll have to check my bags before I purchase one."

"Bags?"

"They're scheduled to arrive sometime tonight," Oliver said, putting the hat back. "Christ, I hope I won't need to stay in the boarding house. I haven't a clue where I'd fit everything. It was a real chore to pack so much in so little time. I'm sure I'll have trouble sorting through the clothes I stuffed into various—"

It was clear by now that Oliver was talking to hear himself talk, not because he wanted to have a conversation. As Oliver prattled on about clothes and hats, Floyd thought back on what he had said about starting a new life. Oliver coming to Rock Creek was a curious thing. Even though Donohue Coal and Steel employed plenty of men who had come from other countries and neighboring communities—farmers who had recently sold their land, young men starting out in life, that sort of thing—not once had Floyd seen someone who looked like Oliver come to Rock Creek to look for work. Someone with that much money—a person who had too many hats to keep track of—ought to have been able to find work elsewhere, like in the city. Why Oliver would want to come to Rock Creek, well, that was a real puzzle.

Floyd couldn't resist the pull to try to solve it. He thought on it for a while. Oliver was still talking, but Floyd had stopped listening. Could be that Oliver was running away from something. Running away could make people act funny—move to faraway places, take whatever work they could find, try something new. If that was the case, Floyd supposed he couldn't fault Oliver for not knowing left from right.

"Come on," Floyd said, interrupting Oliver's babbling. "If I'm late for supper, my wife'll nail my ears to the wall."

Floyd continued toward the entrance, hoping Oliver would follow.

"Ah, was she the one Ivan Karamazov was referring to, then?" Oliver asked, catching up and chuckling like he had said something funny.

"What?"

Oliver pursed his lips and hummed. "Or maybe it was Dmitri?"

"Who are these people?"

"Oh. Sorry. I was trying to make a joke. The Brothers Karamazov ?" Floyd silently cocked an eyebrow in response. "Obviously, that only works if you've read the book I was trying to reference. Of course, I may not have even had character right, so there's a chance that still wouldn't have been very funny even if you had read it." Oliver smiled sheepishly. "So, I take it you're not familiar with Dostoevsky, then?"

"I never heard of him."

"He's, uh, he's a Soviet novelist," Oliver said, a kind of reluctance in his tone. "I read his work in college. Well, some of his work."

If Oliver had been to college, why was he trying to work as a miner? Couldn't he be working in the city somewhere?

As though Oliver had magically read Floyd's mind, he said, "I never finished college, though. I was bored. Or something like boredom, anyway. I couldn't manage to keep my mind on the material. So, I stayed home for a while after that, but I needed to leave. You know how life is, or maybe how I should say how family is, or can be, with their expectations and obligations and everything." Floyd watched him blow out a long breath. "Anyway, I needed a change."

Floyd was staring at Oliver, thinking on how strange it was to meet someone else who had felt forced to leave home, when Oliver removed his hat again. Right away, the sight of Oliver's soft-looking blond locks wiped Floyd's mind plum clean. Oliver raked a hand through his hair, nervous-like, and Floyd was nearly overcome with the sudden urge to reach out and touch it.

Quickly, Floyd forced himself to look away. Wanting to touch Oliver's hair was a reminder—a swift kick in the behind—to hurry up and rid himself of this newcomer.

He started walking again, his feet kicking up little puffs of dirt with each step.

"True enough," Floyd said. He knew what it was like to feel the weight of family obligations. He had felt that way plenty helping out on his family's farm as a kid. "You still never really explained your comment, though. About my wife."

"Well, it wasn't about your wife, really, but what you said about her nailing your ears to the wall. Dostoevsky had a line like ‘a tiger would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to.'"

"What's it mean?"

"It's... well... people are cruel. Uniquely cruel. Worse than tigers, worse than beasts," Oliver explained. "Or that's the point of the view of the character who said it. I'm not sure if Dostoevsky believed it himself."

Well, that was a sad sort of belief, wasn't it? Floyd had never thought that people—people as a whole—were beastly. Even when he had been forced to leave McDowell County, he hadn't felt that way. He wondered if Oliver felt like this Dostoevsky fella.

"Do you believe it?" Floyd asked.

Oliver shrugged. "I think so. Sometimes."

It seemed peculiar that someone like Oliver had such a hard-bitten attitude about other people. He was dressed in Sunday's finest on a weekday, and his "Sunday's finest" looked nicer than most any outfit Floyd had seen for some time. Oliver must have had his secrets. Which was fine. Floyd had his, too.

Floyd realized that he must have been wearing a sour expression when Oliver started chattering on like he felt the need to explain himself for that remark about people being cruel.

"Not like my opinion is an enlightened one, though. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to have some kind of revelation about the inherent goodness of mankind or the importance of faith or something, but I never felt any of that. Maybe because I never finished the book."

Floyd saw an opportunity to lighten the mood.

"Sounds like you tend not to finish things."

Oliver smiled at that. "Yeah. Apparently not."

Floyd couldn't make himself keep up the conversation. He couldn't really talk about Soviet novelists. Or most novelists. By now, Oliver had stopped talking, too, which meant that they could enjoy the sights and sounds of nature.

While they walked the path that ran alongside the train tracks, Floyd noticed Oliver looking beyond it, his eyes fixed on the mountainside, which was really something to see in the springtime—near every inch of the hills covered in lots of shades of green. Seeing Oliver captivated by the sight had Floyd's chest swelling with pride. Wherever Oliver was from, he likely hadn't seen the kind of beauty that nature had to offer out here in the mountains.

Minutes passed. As Floyd was listening to the chirping of birds in the surrounding forest, like the high-pitched cheep-cheep-cheep of the song sparrow, he was happy to realize that Oliver could, in fact, keep quiet for a while. Not that there was nothing wrong with Oliver's rambling, but Floyd had become comfortable with silence, especially when on his walks through town or in the woods. Most of the time, Floyd kept to himself. He had come to like it that way.

As they neared Donohue's place, Floyd could hear children playing over in the fields, and soon, there was a sudden series of whistles, one after another after another, like everyone was singing in a round. It continued on and off for a bit.

"What's that?" Oliver asked.

"Dinner time. Moms whistling to call their children home."

"Ah, that's nice. Wholesome, even," Oliver said. "I was never permitted to roam like that. Farthest I had ever been was our backyard. So I spent a lot of time inside reading. I still read a lot, though I tend to abandon books when I'm three-quarters of the way through. I mean, I can typically sense how they end by that point, so..." He shrugged, and there were a few seconds of silence. Floyd was wondering whether Oliver wanted him to say something in response to that when Oliver picked right up talking some more. "Reading is my favorite activity, I think, aside from piano, though sometimes I wonder if I really enjoy piano or if I only like that I'm not too terrible of a pianist. I'm inclined to say that I like it, though. It's only been a week since I left home, and I find myself missing it already." Talk, talk, talk. Oh well. At least Oliver had a nice voice, one that wasn't bad to listen to. "What about you, Floyd? Did your mom whistle for you to come home when you were little?"

Oliver's question caught Floyd by surprise, both because Floyd was impressed that Oliver could even remember what they had been talking about before his mouth had taken off like a racehorse and because no one had asked him about his family for a long time. Suddenly, a handful of bittersweet memories were resurfacing—moments that managed to make Floyd smile even though they were painful—like little heart-shaped bruises of the mind.

"Yeah," Floyd said. "In her own way."

"What do you mean?"

Floyd supposed sharing a story couldn't hurt.

"She couldn't hardly whistle. Still, she expected me to come home on time. If I listened real close, I could hear this right pathetic attempt of hers, one so quiet it sounded more like wind moving through tree branches. Sometimes, when I really wanted to keep playing, I'd pretend I never even heard her." Floyd laughed to himself. "When I'd come home, she'd say something like, ‘Why're you so late? Ain't you hear me whistling for you?' and I'd lie right to her face saying, ‘No, ma'am, I swear I never heard a thing.' "

Despite the twinge of pain that nearly always accompanied thoughts of his mother, Floyd found himself happy to have shared the memory with someone.

"I love that," Oliver said with a warm laugh. "It's sweet."

Floyd noticed, then, that Oliver had a real nice laugh. It was a kind one, the type of laugh that made others happier for hearing it. Suddenly, it was like the memory hurt a little less.

Floyd kind of wanted to share some more with him. Oliver talked a lot, but the man hadn't been born without listening ears, it seemed.

"I like to think that my mom's poor whistling is the reason I can hear better than most folks I've met. Made me a real sharp hunter."

"Wow. I've never even shot a rifle in my entire life."

"Now I know you must be from the city," Floyd said. "I been hunting since I was a kid."

"Lucky," Oliver remarked, which was a nice thing to hear. Floyd hadn't expected that from someone like Oliver. "I've never spent much time in nature, mostly because of my parents. Honestly, I've always been fascinated by places like this—little towns tucked away in the mountains. It's one of the reasons I wanted to move here."

"Well, there's plenty to like out here—birds and wildflowers and such."

"I can tell," Oliver said, still beaming. "Thank you for taking me to find a telephone so that I can try to talk to Frederick. Or maybe James will be able to help. I can't imagine myself staying in a boarding house. Trust me, it'll be better for everyone if I have my own space. I know what I'm like. Someone would probably smother me in my sleep before the week is out."

Floyd nearly choked on his spittle. What kind of person would talk like that about themselves? And to someone they'd only known for fifteen or twenty minutes? What a funny thing.

Oliver seemed to take some kind of offense to Floyd's non-response.

"Uh, you know, because of my mouth?" Oliver clarified, as though Floyd needed the explanation for him to properly appreciate the humor.

Sure enough, something in the eagerness of Oliver's expression, coupled with the words he had said, made Floyd laugh.

"Are you referring to your constant talking or the swear words you seem to like peppering in from time to time?" Floyd had to ask.

Oliver answered without hesitation. "Both. Definitely both."

Floyd snorted and shook his head. "Funny man."

"Thank you."

They came to the long dirt drive at the end of the road, the one that led up to James Donohue's mansion.

Floyd pointed to it and said, "Well, that's the house. Good luck trying to figure out your situation."

"Thanks," Oliver said. "I hope your ears are intact the next time I see you."

Floyd smirked. "Yeah, we'll see."

After the two of them parted, Floyd started for home. He only made it a few paces before having to contend with the urge to look over his shoulder. Floyd felt some strange kind of pull toward Oliver. He wasn't sure why. Just an interesting fella, Floyd supposed. Oliver wasn't really like anyone else Floyd had ever met. For one thing, no one else in Rock Creek ever prattled on like Oliver, which made him pretty interesting to talk to. For another, Oliver was funny. His sense of humor was a little off, but Floyd was surprised to find that he kind of liked it. Last, but certainly not least, Oliver was handsome. He had that nice smile and that soft-looking yellow hair and those eyes that were a real unusual color. He was tall, too. Not that much shorter than Floyd was, which was really saying something, and had been wearing that fine-looking clothing. Yup, Oliver was a handsome fella, for sure.

Jeez, what in the world was wrong with him? It had been years since he had let himself think about a man's looks like that.

When Floyd looked over his shoulder for the third time (Lord help him, he was counting), Oliver was quite a ways away, nearly at the front door of Donohue's house, and so Floyd paused to watch him for a bit. While Floyd was busy thinking 'bout that friendly sounding laugh Oliver had, Oliver looked over his shoulder, too. And then their eyes met, and Floyd's stomach tumbled. After a quick wave, Floyd turned back around and continued home.

It wasn't long before Floyd reached his house. It was a near duplicate of the other homes closest to the train tracks—a single-story dwelling with white siding and a front porch. As soon as he stepped inside, Josephine came running toward him, her long blonde hair swishing back and forth with each step. Kneeling, Floyd set his poke by his feet and held out his arms for her to barrel into. It made him so happy that she was still so excited to see her daddy every evening.

"Josephine May," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she said before pulling away. "Want to see a new trick I learned?"

"Sure, pretty lady."

Josephine planted her palms flat on the floor and proceeded to kick her legs up in the air. For a split second, she balanced perfectly, but then tumbled sideways and crashed into the rocking chair to her right, making it topple. Even though she'd landed with a loud thud, she only cackled. Floyd couldn't remember the last time she so much as whimpered from falling, let alone cried from it. Stubborn and feisty, Josephine was a force to be reckoned with.

"I had it earlier, I swear."

Her comment—"I swear"—made Floyd think of Oliver and that big mouth of his.

Floyd wagged his finger in a playful manner. "No swearing in this house."

He looked up to see his wife, Effie, watching with a hand on her hip, her short honey-brown hair hidden beneath the white silk scarf she had tied around her head. Gosh, she was beautiful. In the eight years they had been married, she had only become prettier. Not only was Effie's new, shorter haircut flattering for her heart-shaped face, but the crow's feet that now lingered in the corners of her eyes were nothing if not becoming. In moments like these, Floyd nearly found himself wishing he could feel something more than friendship toward her.

"If she's swearing, I promise she hasn't picked it up from me," Effie teased.

Floyd picked up the poke and pushed himself to stand. "Jo was showing me how she can balance on two hands."

"Josephine, if you keep this up, you're fixing to break your neck," Effie scolded in a light-hearted manner before pointing over to the hallway. "Now that you're covered in coal dust, you better wash up."

With a pout, Josephine skulked off to wash her hands in the basin. Effie narrowed her eyes at Floyd in a jokey manner, and Floyd feigned innocence in return, shrugging his shoulders and looking away.

"You and her are so alike," Effie said. "If Josephine was a boy, she'd be trying to work right alongside you in the mines."

"She's only seven."

"You think that'd stop her? I'm pretty sure she'll chop off that hair of hers and follow you to work soon enough," Effie said with a sigh. "She's a tomboy, alright. Always climbing trees and learning new stunts. I caught her with a slingshot yesterday."

"What can I say, Effie? Guess she takes after me."

Effie pursed her lips, an obvious attempt to contain her smile.

"I'm no scientist, but I'm pretty sure that ain't how it works."

"Mmm... I disagree." Floyd lowered his voice to a whisper. "I may not be her father, but I am her daddy. I learned her everything she knows."

He wrapped his free arm around Effie, who immediately elbowed him in the side.

"Are you trying to ruin my clothes?" she asked.

Before Floyd could answer, Josephine called out as she returned.

"All clean!" she said. "Can we eat now?"

Effie looked up at Floyd. "You better wash up, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

Once Floyd had finished washing up and had changed out of his work clothes, the three of them sat at the table for supper—cornbread, baked beans, and coleslaw. It was one of their most frequent meals, but Floyd still loved it. He eagerly dipped a hunk of cornbread into the bean sauce. Josephine copied him.

"You were later than usual today," Effie said, poking at her coleslaw with a fork. "Something happen at the mine?"

"No," Floyd answered. "I met a strange fella at the store. He's from the city. Or a city. Dressed all fancy and such. He wants to be a miner. Was trying to convince Charlie that he was owed a single-family home even though he ain't a family man. I took him over to James Donohue's place. Maybe the two of 'em will work something out."

"That was nice of you."

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't last in the boarding house. Trust me."

"Why do you allow he's here? Sounds like he has money."

"Coming out of his ears, I suspect," Floyd confirmed. "I wonder if he was forced to leave home. He kind of made it sound that way. Said he wanted to start a new life."

"Ah, so that's why you stepped in to help him."

Floyd shifted uncomfortably. "Nah, I was helping him before that," he said, though he knew that Effie was on to something.

Josephine piped up. "What do you mean by that, Mama?"

"Nothing, baby," Effie said, petting Josephine's hair. "Make sure you eat your coleslaw."

Floyd returned his attention to the food in hopes that Effie wouldn't keep pressing, especially now that Josephine had reminded them both that she was listening. While Floyd had initially only helped Oliver because he was feeling sort of bad for him (and for Charlie), he couldn't pretend that Effie's comment was empty of truth. Oliver saying that he had come to Rock Creek to start a new life had caught Floyd's interest for certain.

Thinking back on it now, Floyd's stomach started to feel a little fluttery. Who'd have thought that someone like Oliver might show up in their little coal town?

Over the next couple of minutes, Floyd started thinking of his hometown and how he and Effie had been forced to leave. Sadness came over him—one so heavy it was making his body feel heavy, too. Moving the coleslaw with his fork, Floyd started wondering about his folks—how they were, whether they still owned their farm, whether they had been forced to sell their land to one of the coal companies—and heaved a sigh, forcing the memories away. Within a heartbeat, his thoughts returned to Oliver instead.