Page 15 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“And not everyone was respectable even before Hilliard,” Niina inserted with reprimand.
Edgar snorted. “Every group has their bad apples, sure, but Hilliard?”
“Who is Hilliard?” Rebecca dared to ask, and the sound of her voice must have startled the other three, who all stilled. She squirmed under their frank gazes, surprise on their faces as if Rebecca had asked who the president of the United States was—which she hadn’t, even though she realized now she wasn’t entirely sure.
“Hilliard owns half the copper mines around Ontonagon,” Niina explained. “A year ago, silver was found here, not far from the Iron River. Silvertown is a bit like California just before their gold rush. Find a little, look a bit more, and then silver fever breaks out.”
“Only Hilliard is monopolizing the entire construct. And he won’t listen.” Edgar took a draw from his cup of water before setting it back on the table with a thud. “He’s garnerin’ investors from as far off as Pennsylvania. Thinks Silvertown will be the next big vein of money.”
Rebecca glanced between the three people she shared the small kitchen with. “You don’t want that to happen?” She bit her tongue. An ominous feeling descended on her. She was a part of this somehow. A part of it that skirted the perimeter of her memory, taunting and frightening her simultaneously.
Edgar worked his bearded jaw back and forth, then settled his stare on Rebecca. “Years ago, before the war, this place was known for furs. It was quiet here. Good relations between the traders and the Chippewa. But about thirty years ago, the chiefs met with the government and gave all their lands in this area to the United States. That meant the White man now owned a heap of the land to the west and much of the land east of the American Fur Company’s trading post. ’Course, that meant permits were issued for mining, and the rest is a short history of the last thirty years.”
“The fact that there’s a stamp mill now in Silvertown to process the ore says a lot.” Abel’s musing brought Rebecca’s eyes tohis face. He caught her gaze. “Not that mining is bad. It boosts the economy in the area. It’s just—”
“Progress will happen,” said Niina, “and mining has supported us since you were a boy, Abel. Your own father worked the mines.”
Abel nodded.
Edgar gave his customary snort. “And then there’s men like Hilliard.” He eyed Rebecca for a long moment, until it made her shift in her chair, as if she were somehow to blame. “Shortsighted and feverish with greed. He’s the kind that makes progress worse than better.”
“Where are the Chippewa now?” Rebecca asked Niina.
Niina’s face softened into a smile. “They were granted land, and most have moved there. But there are still some in the area.”
Edgar harrumphed. “Hilliard won’t hire them even though one of them found a big copper load years ago. I’ve no respect for men like Hilliard. Don’t care what color a man is, greed is greed. And then there’s dominatin’ folks—that’s what Hilliard does. Throws his money around like he’s everyone’s boss. He don’t even like the foreigners.”
“Foreigners?” Rebecca asked.
Abel gave her a sheepish smile. “Folks like myisä. My father came from Finland, but he didn’t speak English. Some don’t like the immigrants.”
Rebecca didn’t respond. Instead, she calculated the stories in her mind, desperate to find something to trigger a memory, a familiarity, anything. But there was nothing. A dark void in her recollection meant the brief history lesson surrounding her newest home meant little to her outside of the fact that the world of the Porcupine Mountains was no friendlier than other places. There were pockets of separation. The rich and the poor. The born-and-raised and the immigrant. The White man and the Indian.
And then there was her. Rebecca. Only Rebecca, and threepeople who had already left her on her own side of the table. Tentative in their care, suspicious in their gazes, with a welcome that held her at arm’s length while simultaneously trying to offer her safety.
She was an outsider.
At least Rebecca had learned that much about herself.
8
SHEA
I and my Annabel Lee...
Annabel Lee
ANNABEL’S LIGHTHOUSE
PRESENT DAY
“THAT SHOULD DO IT.Holt finished screwing in a new bulb, and light flooded the room, relieving Shea of that little detail.
She rubbed her hand against her thigh, apprehension swirling in her gut. “You didn’t mention there was a murder here fifteen years ago.”
Holt zipped shut the duffel bag of tools and supplies he’d brought with him after Shea’s call that the light fixture had blown out. He smiled, dimples creasing his cheeks. “You mean suicide?”
“That’s not what the documentary I just watched implied.”Shea didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but she was still unnerved.
