No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(10)
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.
Respect. It had only taken twenty-five years, but he’d finally earned a portion of the precious commodity he’d been starving for his entire life. All because he had a talent for staying alive.
Every time he finished a successful detonation, the men he worked with slapped him on the back and commended his bravery. He soaked up every ounce of their acceptance, like parched earth absorbing a gentle rain. Yet he hid the truth from them, knowing deep down that it wasn’t bravery that allowed him to stay calm under pressure. It was a lack of caring. One didn’t fear death if one had nothing to live for. Not that he wished for his own end. He’d been staving off that old devil too long to succumb without a fight. But sometimes he couldn’t help wishing he had more than a company paycheck waiting for him at the end of each job. Something to give his life meaning. Purpose.
’Course, if he had that, he’d lose his edge in the demolition business. Be thankful for what you got, Shaw, and quit your whinin’.
He turned his attention back to Zach and thumped the kid on the back. “Watch where you step as you clear the area. Those rocks will be unstable.”
Zach rolled his eyes. “Quit actin’ like I never done this before, Mal. I know what I’m doin’.” He pulled away and started trudging up the incline to the blast site.
Mal strode after him. “Hold up, Zach.”
The kid turned, his face petulant. “What?”
Mal halted one step below him on the slope, making their heads equal in height. He lifted a hand, gripped the young man’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “You got a real knack for this business, Zach, but you’re in a hurry, and that scares me. Demolition requires patience. Caution. Vigilance. When you hurry, you lose those things. I tell you to be careful because I want you to remember the importance of going slow, of double-and triple-checking the details. Not because I don’t think you’re capable, but because I want you to become a master at what you do.”
Zach’s jaw dropped, hanging so loose Mal could probably set it to swinging with a tap of his thumb. But then the kid straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and tightened his unhinged jawbone.
“Does that mean you’ll let me run my own demolition next time we get an assignment?”
Mal stared at the boy. Hard. “You’ve got the training. The skills. If you can show me you’ve got the patience, then, yes, you can run the next demolition.”
Zach let out a whoop loud enough to rival a dynamite blast, and for a moment, Mal thought the kid might try to hug him. Thankfully, Zach gathered his wits in time. Mal didn’t do hugs. A slap on the back was affection enough between comrades. Anything more might make the kid think they were friends. Mal didn’t do friendship, either. Friendship meant caring. It meant letting someone see beneath the surface. He’d only ever let one person see beneath his surface, and it had nearly torn his heart from his chest when he’d been forced to leave. Mal was no genius, but he was smart enough to learn from that mistake.