Page 1 of Our Own Light

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?

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