LITMIR.BIZ

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would recognize him, but then he remembered that he was no longer the pudgy little boy all the kids tormented. Besides, Flora had moved from Denver to Leadville several years ago, and they hadn’t seen each other since. Part of him felt bad for deceiving her about his identity, but he hadn’t exactly lied. He’d given her his first and middle names, but not his last. Fortunately, his middle name was his mother’s maiden name, so it sounded like a real name.

      Right now, he couldn’t afford to have anyone, most of all Flora, know his real name. Flora’s father was once George’s father’s best friend, but the two men had had a falling-out years ago, shortly before the Montgomerys moved to Leadville.

      Though George didn’t know what had happened, he did know that John Montgomery was considered an enemy of the family. With George’s father now gone, it was up to George to figure out what was going wrong at the family’s mine, and he wasn’t sure if the Montgomerys could be trusted. A young lady of Flora’s station would obviously know nothing about her father’s business, but all it would take was a careless mention of running into George, and his carefully crafted plan would fall apart. John Montgomery most likely wouldn’t recognize George for the same reasons Flora hadn’t.

      He watched her retreat, noting that the years since their childhood had been kind to her. She’d grown into a graceful young woman, and he’d heard tales of her beauty long before this meeting. The tales had not done her justice. No longer the knobby-kneed, freckle-faced brat who once poked fun at him for sport, Flora had acquired not only beauty, but a gentility that drew him.

      Back in his debutante-chasing days, Flora would have been exactly the sort of woman George would pursue. But those days were over, thanks to his father’s death and subsequent rumors that the mine was having financial troubles. His former fiancée, Shannon, had given him back his ring with the sickeningly sweet suggestion that he might need the money from selling it.

      No more debutantes or any other kind of socialite for George.

      Even if he found a way to straighten out his family’s finances, he didn’t want a wife who could only love him in the “for richer” part of their vows. Women like Flora expected a certain kind of life, a life he wasn’t sure he could provide. If he’d learned anything from this experience, it was that a man’s fortune could change more quickly than anyone could imagine, and regardless of how things turned out for him financially, he needed to know his future wife would be happy in any circumstance.

      Still... Flora Montgomery. Tempting. He’d liked the way she’d taken on caring for a baby when she had no idea what she was doing. Even though she’d been utterly disgusted with the baby spitting up on her, she still had a sweet smile for little Ethel. The last thing Flora had wanted to do was take care of a baby, that was obvious, but he’d seen her genuine concern for the child.

      Of course, he had to remember that he wasn’t George Bellingham, welcome in parlors of the finest families, but George Baxter, lowly miner, and from the way Flora had recoiled at his acquaintance, he wouldn’t be invited to tea anytime soon. As tempting as it was to get to know her better, he wasn’t going to go down that path. The likes of Flora Montgomery were only interested in men who could advance their social standing. Even if George’s plan worked, he wanted no part of a woman who couldn’t love a man for who he was. Call him sentimental, but his parents had married long before they’d had money, and theirs was one of the best marriages he’d ever seen.

      Shannon had done him a favor, giving him his ring back. And he wasn’t planning on giving it to anyone else who could only see a man for his bank account or social standing.

      Neither of which would amount to much if he didn’t figure out who was sabotaging operations at the mine. A couple weeks ago, an entire tunnel had caved in, narrowly avoiding killing several workers. His brother-in-law, Arthur, had told him that it was the cost of doing business, and these things happened sometimes. But that wasn’t how George’s father had done business, and had it not been for a runaway carriage, he’d still be here to make things right.

      Which left the task up to George.

      His mother had been badly injured in the carriage accident, and her medical bills and treatments were costly. Arthur was busy handling the family’s other business interests, which were also inexplicably losing money. Though Arthur had insisted that George remain at Harvard, pursuing his studies so that he could eventually take his place in the family businesses, George couldn’t sit back and watch his family lose everything.

      Arthur might be too busy to get to the bottom of the troubles at the mine, but George wasn’t. How could he continue spending money that the family might not have much longer? His mother needed the medical care. His sister was expecting another baby. No, the answer was not to bury himself in the books, but in this mine.

      Folks used to say that Elias Bellingham was far too generous in his dealings with others, and that it would someday send him to the poorhouse. Which was why, Arthur had told him, the family business was nearly bankrupt again.

      Didn’t George owe it to his father’s legacy to see if he could turn things around at the mine?

      A faint whimper on the other side of the tree where he’d laid his canteen caught his attention. As George rounded the tall pine that hadn’t yet been claimed by the camp for fuel or building material, he spied a little boy sitting in the hollow near a boulder a few yards away.

      “Hey, little guy,” George said softly as he approached. “Are you all right?”

      The small boy couldn’t be more than three or four years old, the same age as his nephew, Sam.

      A tear-stained face stared up at him, longing thick in the child’s eyes. He spoke rapidly, but the words were foreign to George. All he could understand was, “Père.”

      Father. George had taken a few French lessons, but he’d been terrible at it. Many of his peers had had French nannies, learning the language as part of daily life. But the Bellinghams had gone with a more traditional English nanny. Which did him little good now.

      Since the boy looked like he was about to start crying again, George knelt beside him. Maybe the boy spoke English. “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

      The little boy shook his head. Great. That was about the extent of the French he could remember, other than a few words that didn’t seem helpful here.

      Pointing to himself, he said, “George.”

      Then he pointed at the little boy.

      “Pierre,” the boy said.

      Then the boy began speaking again in rapid French. George shook his head and pointed to himself again. “No parlez Français.”

      Hopefully it was enough to convey to the boy that he didn’t understand. The boy nodded slowly as tears continued rolling down his cheeks.

      George pointed to himself again. “George...help...Pierre.” Wait. What was the word for help? “Aid?”

      That seemed to get Pierre’s attention, or at least stop the flow of tears.

      Pierre pointed at George’s canteen.

      “Are you thirsty?”

      Silly of him to ask, since Pierre probably didn’t know the word. George held out the canteen, mostly empty from Flora’s use, but there was a little water to spare.

      Pierre drank the water quickly, then pointed to his stomach.

      What was the word for hungry? Back when George was pudgy, everything had been about food. “Faim?”

      Hopefully he wasn’t telling Pierre something awful. But Pierre nodded, so George took that as a good sign.

      Judging by the fact that the little boy was alone and crying, George was going to assume he’d somehow gotten separated from his father. But how was he supposed to find a little boy’s father when he’d barely arrived at the mining camp himself? He’d been here just long enough to pitch a tent and gain employment at the mine.

      Flora. She was here with the church mission.

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