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Zayne. “What were you planning on doing at this mine today?”
    “I set some dynamite up yesterday, and I’m intending toblow out a new portion of a tunnel today.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Zayne knew he’d made a huge mistake. Agatha was suddenly bristling with excitement, while Mr. Blackheart and Mrs. Swanson had both turned a little pale.
    “You need to get out of the wagon,” Mr. Blackheart demanded, shoving the leash back at Mrs. Swanson before he began moving in Agatha’s direction.
    Agatha, being Agatha, shook her head and gripped the seat with both hands. “Not on your life, Mr. Blackheart. I’ve never been around dynamite before and I’ve always been curious as to how it would feel to blow something up.”
    “Don’t make me cause a scene,” Mr. Blackheart growled, his lips barely moving.
    Agatha’s eyes turned stormy. “I don’t appreciate the assumption that I’m going to blow myself up.”
    “It’s not an assumption, Miss Watson—it’s what will most likely happen.”
    An uncomfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the snorts of Matilda as she rooted around in the dirt, until Agatha finally released a huff. “Fine, I promise I’ll try not to touch any dynamite.”
    Mr. Blackheart quirked a brow. “Try?”
    “It’s all I’m willing to offer.”
    “You might as well give in gracefully,” Mrs. Swanson said as she handed the leash back to Mr. Blackheart. “You know she’ll just figure out a way to get out to the mine on her own if we stand in her way.”
    “We could lock her in her room,” Mr. Blackheart suggested.
    Mrs. Swanson’s lips pursed again. “I believe you tried that before, and with unfortunate results, so just be a dear and get Matilda into the wagon, won’t you?”
    Mr. Blackheart sent Zayne another scowl, as if the situation were his fault, before he bent over, scooped Matilda up, plopped the pig in the back of the wagon, and began to walk toward another wagon parked a few feet away. “Just remember that I warned you about the danger of this,” he tossed over his shoulder as he waited for Mrs. Swanson to join him, helped her up on the wagon seat, and then climbed up beside her.
    “He’s so dramatic,” Agatha exclaimed with a cheery wave to Mr. Blackheart before she turned her attention to Zayne. “So, tell me, exactly how does one get dynamite to explode?”
    Deciding it would be in his best interest to ignore that ominous question, Zayne flicked the reins over the mules. The wagon lurched into motion, and as they picked up speed, he felt an unusual desire to say a prayer, one that would request assistance from God in helping him retain the use of his remaining good limbs. Remembering the troubling fact that he was at distinct odds with God at the moment, he pushed the desire aside and settled for keeping his attention fixed on the road. He could only hope Agatha would get the hint and realize he wasn’t in the mood for answering questions, especially those concerning dynamite.

3

    P eering through the veil that distorted her view, Agatha considered Zayne as they plodded along, her concern for his well-being growing the longer he remained unusually silent.
    The Zayne of her past would have been trying his very best to distract her from the dynamite situation, not calmly driving along as if . . .
    “You haven’t asked about Helena.”
    Horror immediately replaced the concern.
    How could she have been so remiss?
    Helena was the answer to everything.
    She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. “I never even considered Helena in all this, Zayne, but do know that you have my deepest sympathies.”
    “Why do I need your sympathy?”
    Agatha shoved the veil aside. “Because losing your true love had to have been remarkably difficult on you.”
    “Helena was never my true love.”
    “That’s hardly an appropriate way to speak of the deceased.”
    Zayne pulled on the reins, bringing the mules to a stop before he turned