Donkey Derby Days was a tradition commemorating Teddy Roosevelt’s 1901 visit to Cripple Creek. Teddy had been vice president then, whistle-stopping on behalf of President McKinley. When he’d learned Cripple’s donkeys spent their lives carrying sacks of ore through pitch-black tunnels, often resulting in their blindness, legend went that Teddy demanded miners release the animals from their servitude.
Festivities consisted of three days of parades, dancing, music, arcade games, gold panning, booths displaying food and homemade crafts and kitted out donkeys racing up Bennett Avenue to cheering spectators. The entire Mooney clan generally attended. Last year Padrick had participated with their very own donkey, purchased because Lily insisted her parents must add to their collection of animals rivaling Noah’s Ark. Since Lily was also a big fan of Winnie-the-Pooh, the donkey, to no one’s surprise, had been named Eeyore. But for today, at least, all the family--including Eeyore--remained tucked away at Shamrock Ranch, awaiting Maeve and Beau Strank’s arrival.
When she reminded Beau they really must be going, her intended life partner demurred. “Gotta press the flesh, sug. It’s politics.”
Because of his political aspirations, Maeve understood networking was a full-time job. Still, how annoying! Not only did Beau need to make a good impression on her family, but wasn’t his comment patronizing? Dismissive? Yeah, well, Maeve knew a bit about politics her own damn self. The Stranks might have been political in the sense they had lots of relatives elected to public office, but the Mooneys were political in the sense that if this was the 1930s, they would have been communists.
While Beau worked his magic, Maeve wandered in the opposite direction, taking lots of selfies and videos of the brick, western-style buildings. When I’m First Lady I’ll create an Instagram account: “Maeve Strank Visits Quaint Colorado Towns.” That’s why Colorado needs a young First Lady. New Ideas. Bring everyone together.”
Maeve tried to remember who the current governor’s wife was, but she really, really didn’t follow politics… except, oh, yeah, the current governor was gay so she’d be restoring tradition. Perfect!
By the time Maeve neared the old courthouse on the corner of First and Bennett, the crowd had dwindled to a handful. Hard to believe Cripple Creek had once been dubbed the “Paris of the West.” Today’s gambling “industry” was a puny substitute for the riches provided by turn-of the-century gold mines. Maybe that was why Maeve always thought of Cripple Creek as an afterthought struggling for relevancy. Still, when little, she’d enjoyed all the tales of its history. She’d particularly enjoyed Nana Grace’s visits to Rocky Mountain Canary General Store, where she’d buy Maeve a chocolate chip ice cream cone and homemade fudge and toffee for the rest of the clan.
“There are ghosts here, cailin.”
Maeve could almost hear Nana Grace’s voice. Despite the fact that Nana’s side of the family, the O’Connors, had fled Ireland following the 1880s’ Fenian dynamite campaign rather than risk arrest for blowing up British buildings, Maeve’s grandmother had peppered her speech with Irish words delivered via a definite brogue. While licking her ice cream, Maeve and Nana Grace would stroll Bennett Avenue, Nana filling her head with outlandish tales involving leprechauns, banshees, changelings, spells, holy wells and the like. Here in Cripple Creek ghosts took pride of place. The owner of the Imperial Hotel, on the corner of Bennett and Third, had been cracked over the head with an iron skillet by his mentally ill daughter, leaving his ghost to walk the corridors wearing an old-fashioned top hat. Colorado Grande Casino was haunted by the beautiful Maggie, dressed in a a white blouse and blue skirt and with her long hair piled atop her head, who sang Irish tunes and danced in its old ballroom.
Then there was the young girl who’d been spotted inside Bronco Billy’s Casino.
“She likes to play with visiting children,” Nana Grace explained. “She also likes to sit at the top of the stairwell where she draws on the walls. No matter how employees scrub off the drawings and other graffiti, they always come back.”
While Maeve always expected Nana Grace to launch into a lecture about defacing public property, instead she continued, “Sometimes you can see her gazing out the window, looking for a cara.” Her grandmother would gesture to the huge arched windows beneath the “Turf Club” sign carved into the original brick. Once Maeve fancied she spotted a figure wearing a white dress and with a big bow in her long hair, elbows on the windowsill, gazing down at her.
Maeve had loved those stories until she grew old enough to wonder whether her grandmother might not be crazy superstitious but simply crazy. In Maeve’s opinion her entire family had way too many fanciful or deluded ideas, not the least of which was their embrace of their peasant roots, as if there was something noble about living in bogs and starving from potato blight and railing against the fates. Maeve preferred focusing on the part of the Mooney heritage tracing their lineage back to Gaelic kings.
Certainly not the Mooney heritage as it pertained to Cripple Creek.
Maeve hadn’t always felt this way. As a child she’d been enchanted by its history--Bennett Avenue with its trolleys and elegant National Hotel; Myers Avenue, one block south, teeming with brothels, opium dens, dance halls and cribs for miners too poor to afford the high class whores at the Old Homestead House on the opposite end of the avenue. She too had been familiar with ghosts, though not the kind Nana Grace peddled. They peeked out from fading photographs in the Mooney library and local museums; flitted about Mt. Pisgah cemetery; watched and waited like shy children until Cripple was quiet save for the occasional ding-ding-ding of slot machines, signalling it was safe to come out and play. What had it been like when ragtime music wafted from saloons, when miners trooped in and out of assay offices, hardware, and department stores, when workers and their wives dressed in their best to enjoy Enrico Caruso and Sarah Bernhardt at the Cripple Creek Opera House? When mine explosions shook the earth and whistles shrieked shift changes or warned of danger in the tunnels; when miners burrowed like voles thousands of feet down, extracting tons of ore in order to produce one ounce of gold? When newsboys shouted the day’s headlines and swaggering mine owners displayed gold pocket watches adorned with jewels? When her great-great grandfather, Saint Paddy, as her family referred to him, had been responsible for turning the Western Federation of Miners into Colorado’s most powerful union?
Even now, their presence lingered like steam rising from a winter pond, which was one of the reasons Maeve disliked visiting Cripple Creek. Just as she’d jettisoned her Irish heritage over the Atlantic, she’d laid her romantic notions of Cripple Creek to rest as neatly as the graves in Mt. Pisgah Cemetery.
Contemporary Cripple Creek was nothing more than T-shirt clad tourists and dead-eyed seniors with portable oxygen tanks mechanically yanking the arms of their slot machines.
I’m destined for a much wider world, Maeve thought, glancing at her cellphone for the time. And nothing will stop me.
***
Beau Strank emitted a low whistle. “Quite the spread,” he said, after his Mercedes had eased over the cattleguard beneath the wrought iron “Shamrock Ranch” sign. Maeve found herself viewing her family “spread” with new eyes, or more precisely her soon-to-be fiance’s eyes. Rolling pastureland dotted with livestock and round hay bales from the season’s first cutting; sprawling farmhouse on a rise surrounded by outbuildings and corral. Maeve was familiar with every rock formation, every hiking trail on their two hundred acre property.
“Prime piece of real estate, sug,” Beau commented approvingly.
“Yes.”
Maeve suppressed the urge to knead her stomach where a knot had formed. When she’d worked at the Golden Bee, she’d enjoyed driving around the Broadmoor gawking at the mansions, custom homes, multi-million-dollar condos, and estates glimpsed behind iron gates. She’d dreamed of living in one, of transforming herself into the perfect Broadmoor resident--refined and well-bred (because she’d invent her pedigree) without being smug, like the Broadmoor resort itself--impeccably tended private and public lawns and golf courses; immaculately kept buildings that while grand, would never be so gauche as to attempt to compete with the surrounding Rockies. An oasis of good taste where even the animals at Cheyenne Mountain Zoo lolled contentedly in their cages and the ducks trolling the Broadmoor Hotel’s lake begged politely while maintaining their honks at acceptable decibels.
The American Dream for people with manners.
Was this all a mistake? Did I miscalculate somewhere along the way?Forget to factor in a few critical details when storyboarding my life?
She side-eyed Beau, who was obviously calculating the numbers on the asset side of Shamrock Ranch’s balance sheet and coming up with an impressive bunch of zeroes. Here he was, the fifty-five year-old man who held her future in his pudgy, well-manicured hands. Definitely not a looker, not with his egg-shaped body and hinky hairline that screamed “transplants.”
Don’t care, she reminded herself. During her wilder years, Maeve’s body count had included plenty of boy toys and Alpha males. Sex had never been that great with any of them.
Strank craned his neck in the direction of a weathered headframe, set apart behind a wrought iron fence like a cenotaph to some grand historical figure. Beneath the headframe was the White Rabbit/holy well Nana Grace had insisted was an opening into another world—“Like Alice in Wonderland, ceann milis.” The truth was less magical: it was an abandoned mine shaft with a fence erected to prevent animals and Mooney children from falling to their deaths.
“It was always a dry hole,” she explained to Beau, who was still rubbernecking. Nearby was the rock foundation of some mansion that had burned down in the aftermath of the labor wars, but by the time Padrick had explained its history, she’d no longer been interested, and the details had slipped away like butterflies at twilight.
Beau pulled his SUV behind a trio of well-worn pickups and a Jeep Cherokee (all American made). Free-range chickens clucked and scattered across the manicured lawn in the direction of the Mooney residence. Maeve might have grander aspirations, but she was proud of their rambling white farmhouse with its gingerbread trimmed dormers marching across the upper story (complete with wooden shutters that could be closed during hailstorms); its copper metal roof and wraparound porch decorated by elaborate hand carved posts and railing; window boxes popping with herbs and flowers.
Maeve’s feeling of well-being disappeared when she realized who was watching them from the interior of said wraparound porch.
“My family can’t wait to meet you,” she lied. While her parents and Granda valiantly supported her various “life choices,” Padrick was forever crying, “What the hell’s happened to you, Moonface? You know better than…” whatever decision he disagreed with.
“Let’s get on with it,” she muttered, exiting the vehicle.
The sacrifices one had to make to achieve one’s goals!
***
Padrick Mooney watched the Mercedes G 63 AMG wind up the dirt driveway. What a pretentious fuck. A foreign made SUV costing a couple hundred thou when you could buy a used Ford Expedition for ten grand. For the millionth time, Padrick wondered what had happened to his little sister. Sabrina Darling, yeah, Maeve had pretty much created an alter ego that proved she’d lost her ever-loving mind. Fake blonde hair, fake hair extensions, fake tan, fake nose because apparently the Mooney nose was too big for Pop Diva Princess, and dressing in designer duds that screamed, “Look at me. Marvel at the size of my wallet.”
From his position with arms crossed and leaning against a porch pillar, Padrick called out, “Hey, Moonface!”
Ignoring him, Maeve bent down to pet their border collie, Mutt, who’d scrabbled off the porch steps to greet her with excited whines and tail wagging.
“Hey, Moonface!” Padrick repeated.
“Daddy!” Maeve yelled. “Tell Moron Brain not to call me that!”
A mild “Behave yourselves” from the front porch where Daddy and Granda were esconced in their rockers.
A grinning Padrick descended the steps and nudged Maeve’s shoulder before welcoming Beau with an outstretched hand. While the Mooneys were generally a hair below average in size, Padrick was the lineman version of the Incredible Hulk. His garb of choice was Carhartt overalls, with flannel shirts underneath in the winter and nothing in the summer.
Padrick ignored the look of alarm on Maeve’s face at his bare torso. He might pretty himself up for Sunday Mass or a night out with Celia and Lily, but not for this slimeball.
Beau Strank flashed his salesman smile and shook Padrick’s hand firmly, but not too firmly because there was a trick to the proper way of shaking hands if you were a politician and you thought people were too stupid to know you were as phony as your concern for their pedestrian problems.
Soon after, Mama, Celia and Lily exited the interior to join them. After an awkward round of introductions, Mama asked Beau whether he would enjoy a tour of their house. Playing docent was one of Mama’s favorite pastimes.
“What the hell, Maeve?” Padrick whispered after Beau and Mama moved out of earshot. “D’you know who that dickhead is?”
“Of course,” Maeve said, lifting her chin. “He belongs to an important local family like the Tutts and the Penroses.”
Padrick snorted, but before he could make some further nasty comment, Maeve scooted after the disappearing pair.
The first floor of the Mooney home, which consisted of the usual kitchen, dining room, parlor, living room, library, music room and an entire wing where Granda resided, was chock full of antiques, many dating back to the time of Saint Paddy. Even viewing each room from her current ruthlessly critical viewpoint, Maeve found it all beautiful in a shabby chic sort of way, like the manor houses she and Padrick had toured in Ireland--a bit down at the heels perhaps, which only added to their charm.
Beau possessed a familiarity with antiques Maeve wouldn’t have guessed from the mid-century vibe of his Broadmoor condo. “Is that a Tiffany table lamp?” he gushed after Mama led him into the living room. “I’ve never seen a fainting couch like this. Such exquisite material!”
He sounded like an estate appraiser readying for an auction.
Erase your cynicism, Maeve Mooney.
When they reached the parlor with its clear pine floor, worn rugs, and mishmash of periods furniture, they paused in front of one of the house’s eight fireplaces. Above its carved mantel was a large oval portrait, executed in badly faded shades of grey and black. To Maeve, it looked more like a paint by numbers than a work of art.
Saint Paddy.
“Not only did Paddy Mooney purchase the acreage, he built the original house,” Mama explained. “Though it’s been added on over the years.”
“Ah, yes,” said Beau, hands behind his back, pretending to study the sun-bleached painting of a long-dead ancestor he’d probably never heard of.
Maeve wouldn’t describe Saint Paddy, in his high collar shirt, tie and vest with watch chain peeking out of a side pocket, as handsome, particularly with that unfortunate Mooney proboscis. He’d always reminded her more of Darby O’Gill from Darby O’Gill and the Little People. This painting had been commissioned near the end of his life when he’d been bald and quite rotund and the Mooney nose appeared to have been smashed several times. She’d never express her real opinion of her quite plain (but merry-looking!) ancestor, not when Paddy Mooney had achieved the status of Saint Michael the Archangel in Mooney mythology.
While Beau and Mama chatted about her boring ancestor, Mave’s gaze drifted to the adjacent tintype—six officers of the Western Federation of Miners, which had once ruled the District. Her great-great grandfather was seated, legs crossed and bowler tilted low so you couldn’t really see his face other than a huge grin, which further cemented Maeve’s (unspoken) belief that Paddy Mooney was a man who harbored secrets—such as being your typical hard-drinking, story-telling, full-of-blarney Irishman.
But it was the man standing directly behind Paddy, with his hands resting upon her great-great grandfather’s shoulders, who held her attention.
Ronan Doyle. President of Cripple Creek’s Western Federation of Miners, Local Union 40. Seeing him again caused her heart to feel a little strange, as if reigniting a yearning long after she’d forgotten it existed. Yet, she hadn’t been wrong. Ronan Doyle remained the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Taller than the rest and looking, at least to Maeve’s mind--harkening back to the time travel books she’d once devoured--like a transport from the 21st century. While the others were dressed in suit coats and vests, Ronan wore a collarless white shirt, open at the throat revealing what appeared to be several necklaces, but which she’d decided were religious medals and chains because no turn-of-the-century miner would wear something that looked at home on a model gracing the cover of Esquire. Hatless with a neatly clipped beard and hair far longer than the others and looking off to the side, as though seeing something or not wanting his face on camera. During her first crush phase, Maeve had endlessly studied the tintype, even taking out a magnifying glass to determine whether those necklaces were merely peculiar shadows.
Who is Ronan Doyle? she’d wondered, as if the photo might reveal his secrets. A broody sort, naturally, aloof and fighting his attraction to the heroine—in this case Maeve herself, at least during the stage she’d discovered and devoured Mama’s historical romances.
Intense. Passionate as a union leader had to be at that time. But not just passionate toward a cause. Quite the ladies’ man until tamed by the charms of one Maeve Mooney…
Ronan Doyle had sparked her interest in turn-of-the-century Cripple Creek, but even after scouring yellowing newspapers and local histories in the Mooney library, Maeve had only come across a few mentions of him--reminders of weekly meetings at the WFM union hall, congratulations when Ronan won some bareknuckle fight, speechifying at a Fourth of July extravaganza.
A memory intruded, ancient, when she’d been in the throes of her silliness.
Lounging on the Victorian settee with its poky springs—before Mama had reupholstered it—she’d been writing in her journal. A poem that included Aengus, the Celtic God of Love, but she couldn’t think of something to rhyme with his name. Maybe the “gus” part, something like rust or dust or trust or…
“Head in the clouds again?” Nana Grace had swept into the room without her realizing. Dressed in yet another version of those shapeless sack dresses she wore and those combat-style boots, she stood beside Maeve, who’d angled the settee to face the tintype head on.
“The problem with Ronan Doyle was he needed a decent piano player. And his uncle needed to leave the Demon rum alone.”
With that, she’d swept from the room. Huh? Since Nana Grace spent a lot of time in the family library, Maeve had assumed she’d found some reference in a local history book.
And forgotten the whole business.
Besides, since Maeve had replaced fantasy with flesh and blood, she’d learned that romance existed only between the pages of novels. She’d sampled enough of the male menu to conclude men were like brushing your teeth--necessary for your health, but beyond that just another chore.
***
“I don’t know when I’ve eaten a more delicious meal,” Beau Strank said, helping himself to the last piece of Celia’s cheesecake, which was made from goat cheese, courtesy of her Alpines. “And all home grown.” Leaning back in his chair, he patted his impressive stomach. “If y’all opened a restaurant you’d make a fortune!”
Everybody appeared pleased by Beau’s praise and charmed overall. Except for Padrick. Throughout dinner, Maeve’s brother had remained uncharacteristically silent, his gaze repeatedly drifting from Beau to her and back again.
Really, what is your problem?
She kicked Padrick beneath the table. He responded by discreetly flipping her off before ordering Lily to finish her corn on the cob.
After dinner, Celia and Mama cleaned up, Daddy excused himself to feed the animals, and Padrick, Granda, Beau and Maeve retreated to the front porch. While Alexa played Dead South in the background and Lily sprawled on Mutt’s stomach with an open book, Beau and Maeve sat on the porch swing.
This is going well, she thought smugly. Beau is already like a member of the family.
Gazing across the landscape, Maeve’s heart swelled with affection. She’d forgotten how beautiful Shamrock Ranch could be of a summer evening. A hint of violet appeared in the west, heralding sunset. Shadows crawled across meadows riotous with lupine, wild asters and Indian paintbrush. Old Red, their ancient Percheron, and Eeyore the Donkey grazed near a rock formation she and Padrick had once pretended to be Fort Laramie, Old Ironsides or the Alamo, depending on what book had most recently captured their imagination.
“Auntie Moonface, would you take me to the White Rabbit?” Lily had abandoned Mutt to gaze up at Maeve with those adorably huge blue eyes. She didn’t have the heart to remind her niece that “Auntie Moonbeam” was her proper title.
Maeve glanced at a frowning Padrick. “I told you, butterfly, there’s nothing to see there.”
Since that day no one ever mentioned, Padrick had been skittish about the entire White Rabbit business, even arguing the area should be bulldozed and the shaft completely filled.
“I promise we’ll be careful.” Maeve slipped her hand into Lily’s. “And we’ll take Mutt.” As if Mutt could protect them from…what? Anyway, Beau might enjoy getting better acquainted with his future in-laws without her hovering.
They strolled toward the headframe, Lily clutching an ancient copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass, just as Maeve once had and chattering happily about the Cheshire Cat, Humpty Dumpty and queens who cut off people’s heads.
Maeve’s mind drifted back to her own childhood visits with Nana Grace. How many different tales had her grandmother spun about what she insisted on calling the holy well. The well could tumble you down into the past, to the time when it had been excavated. Its waters could cure illnesses and divine the future. Which was kind of impossible since there was no actual water in the so-called well, but when Maeve pointed that out, Nana Grace had thumped her on top of the head and said, “I’ll be showing you water when I wash that smart mouth out with soap.”
After Maeve had unlocked the wrought iron gate and they’d entered the enclosure, she tightened her grip on Lily’s hand. It seemed like yesterday when she’d been clasping that same battered copy of Alice in Wonderland and pressing her small body against the iron bars, peering at a very unprepossessing circle of dirt, hoping she might see something magical.
A breeze sprang up, carrying with it the cooling breath of evening. Maeve shivered.
I did see something, didn’t I?
Only it hadn’t been magical.
She looked down at her feet. Had it been here, at this very spot, where she’d found a delirious Nana Grace?
Lily continued chattering and tugging her forward, closer to the shaft. Immersed in memories of that dreadful time, Maeve answered by rote. That summer, that horrible summer, the summer following her senior year. The summer Nana Grace disappeared.
Nothing unusual had distinguished that day, nothing had warned the Mooneys this would be a monumental “before and after” in their lives. Nana Grace sometimes went off on what she called “walkabouts,” visiting relatives or friends (Nana Grace had friends?) for weeks at a time. Glad of the reprieve, nobody questioned her much. This particular time, there’d been no warning or declaration of “I’m going to visit Mother Cabrini’s shrine. I’ll be gone as long as it takes.” As usual, the family had enjoyed a hearty breakfast. The usual conversation—work, weather, neighborhood news. Nana Grace had glowered at her husband because he’d spent the previous evening drinking and gambling at Johnny Nolon’s Casino. But that wasn’t unusual. Nana Grace loathed the wickedness that was alcohol, asserting it was the greatest curse of the Irish. Afterward, she’d helped Mama and Maeve clean up before retreating to the library, or so they’d assumed. No one noticed Nana’s absence until dinner time when Granda sounded the alarm.
Thinking she’d gone on another of her walkabouts without bothering to tell them, (Nana loved spiteful gestures ), they’d waited several days before alerting the authorities. Afterward, a search party had scoured the ranch and surrounding countryside. Local media speculated Nana Grace’s disappearance might be connected to recent cattle mutilations.
Weeks later, when mourning doves cooed and rain from the previous night’s storm still lingered in the air, Maeve had spotted her grandmother sprawled inside the iron fence, mere feet from the White Rabbit. Nana Grace’s faded blue eyes, intent upon Maeve’s face, clawed hands reaching up imploringly, palms black with soot or something, still haunted her dreams.
After Maeve knelt down beside her, Nana Grace whispered, “Wonderland…Not what you think…”
Those were her last words. No one ever uncovered why Nana Grace had disappeared, where she’d gone or how she’d returned. Nana’s secrets had been scattered along with her ashes across the highest point of Shamrock Ranch, overlooking a valley of lodgepole pines, red granite formations and, far in the distance, the jagged, white-capped spine of the Sangre de Cristos.
Maeve shivered. To the west the sky had caught fire, looking as it must have more than a century past when an overturned gas stove had caused all of Cripple Creek to burn.
“I want to get closer,” Lily complained, jerking Maeve’s arm. “I can’t see anything.”
As ever, the world went about its business, the living and dying unseen and unremarked. Maeve thought about that sometimes, how they’d all continued their lives, as ignorant of Nana Grace’s pending fate as they were of their own.
But maybe that was the way it should be. If we could tap into our fates, would we lay in bed, pull our covers over our head and refuse to leave?
“Time to go, sweetheart,” Maeve said. “There’s nothing to see here in the dark.”
***
Maeve should have known. When she and Lily returned, songs from the Little Red Song Book were blasting away, courtesy of Alexa. All the way up the path, Maeve heard,
“Workers of the world, awaken!
Break your chains, demand your rights.
All the wealth you make is taken
By exploiting parasites.”
She didn’t need the entrails of a chicken to interpret what that IWW music meant. Padrick was pissed. Yet when she and Lily reached the porch, the scene looked normal enough. Beau was still seated on the swing, cradling a bottle of Budweiser (union made!) and looking as if he owned the place. Granda and Daddy, returned from his chores, had settled into their rockers. Padrick leaned against one of the porch columns, legs crossed in front of him. “Come here, butterfly,” he called, holding his arms out to Lily. Maeve knew her brother well enough to hear the tension in those three words, note the narrowed blue eyes, pugnacious jut to his jaw.
“You realize you’ve got a primo piece of property here,” Beau was saying. He’d used the same voice when convincing Maeve to purchase her Cheyenne Canyon home from his Broadmoor Premium Real Estate firm.
You couldn’t possibly be so stupid as to be talking business, not when I’ve repeatedly warned you not to.
“With the proper investment guidance, you’re sitting on a gold mine.” Absently, Beau picked at the label on his beer bottle.
All righty then. You could be that stupid.
Porch windchimes tinkled; Celia and Mama’s voices drifted from the kitchen. Granda hummed along to Workers of the World, Awaken!, using his beer bottle as a metronome.
“Only real gold mine around here is the Cripple Creek & Victor,” Padrick countered, his tone growly the way it got when irritation was sliding toward rage. “Richest gold mine in state history.” He adjusted Lily, who cuddled against his shoulder. “So you’d think its owners would be open to a union in order to share their profits.”
Beau didn’t even blink at the word “union.” “Actually, I was referring to your magnificent property. They’re not making any more land, you know. And our beautiful state continues to be a treasured destination.” Maeve listened in horror as he continued, “If you sold Shamrock Ranch, your beautiful baby daughter down to your great-great-grandchildren would never have to work a day in their lives.”
“Join the union, fellow workers
Men and women, side by side;
We will crush the greedy shirkers
Like a sweeping; surging tide;”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Maeve muttered. She stalked inside the house to face the source of her distress, that little black ball so innocently placed on the hallway table. Bending close to the troublemaker that continued warbling revolutionary verses, Maeve hissed, “Alexa, shut the fuck up!” She returned to stand inside the screendoor, which was the perfect position from which to view the derailment of her future. If only fate allowed do-overs. Maybe she’d rewind way, way back before she’d storyboarded Beau Strank to be her husband and her passport to achieving the American Dream.
“It’d be my pleasure to work up some figures, a back of the hand appraisal,” Beau droned on. “I guarantee you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” For someone who prided himself on reading the room, Beau Strank was oblivious to the hostility sparking off Padrick like a downed power line. “Just imagine what you could do with more money than most people dream of—"
Daddy interrupted. “Two things count in this world, your family and your land.” He gestured into the dark. “Here is the Mooney legacy. Been in our family more than a hundred years. No price you can put on a man’s birthright.”
For her easy-going father, that was the equivalent of punching Beau in the face.
Padrick spoke up. “Gotta question about your ancestor, one Horace Strank.” His neutral tone was belied by the “look,” which meant he was about to start spouting his socialist nonsense. Or rip Beau’s throat out.
“Ask away,” Beau said amiably. Unaware that he had just stepped into a mantrap.
“During the labor wars, Horace Strank was one of the founders of the Citizens’ Alliance, which helped destroy the Western Federation of Miners.”
“Padrick!” Maeve called out. “Remember what they say about mixing politics and religion.”
“Was it Horace Strank’s idea, as a leader of the Alliance, to persuade Governor Peabody to bring in gatling guns and declare martial law and to murder strikers? How many deaths was your relative responsible for?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Beau responded blandly. “I’m not really a fan of history.”
Maeve pushed open the screen door and let it slam behind her. “Daddy, Beau said he can get us season tickets for the Broncos.” The entire Mooney clan, save Maeve, loved football, though she pretended to because she enjoyed ogling the players’ butts.
Everyone except Padrick seemed relieved by the change in subject. Celia came outside to retrieve Lily, who’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, which left Padrick free to glare more menancingly at Beau. The Mooney men were still upset over the outcome of the 1904 strike, though Saint Paddy had tried his mighty best to fight Colorado’s governor, the state militia, the National Guard, the various mine owners’ alliances… and Horace Strank.
Soon after, Maeve ended the day’s disaster with, “We really must be going. Traffic down Ute Pass can be bumper to bumper.”
Beau shook hands all around and handed out business cards. “If you change your mind, give me a ring. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
Though they were not a huggy family, Padrick pulled Maeve to him. “Bloody hell,” he whispered against her ear. “You can do a million times better than that fucking bastard. Just say the word and I’ll kick his ass.”
Oddly touched, Maeve clung to her brother a long moment before pushing away. “I’m fine,” she whispered back. “Promise. Everything’s great.”
Only it wasn’t.
As Maeve Mooney would soon find out.