Treasure of the World by Tara Sullivan (best romantic books to read txt) 📗

the way he says it, that I’m not going to like this job. Then again, I didn’t like yesterday’s job either. In all honesty, it’s probably a mercy to use a different set of muscles than yesterday.

“Okay.”

He sighs in response and points me toward a three-man crew pushing a large metal bin on wheels along the narrow-gauge track that runs into the mine.

“Don César said I’m to work with you today,” I say, trying to come across as someone who belongs here; someone you’d be okay having assigned to your team for the day.

The two men on my side of the bin stare at me stonily for a moment, taking me in. Then the man on the other side straightens and I see his face. I feel something in my chest loosen.

“Oh, hi, Papi.”

Papi humphs and glares at the other two men.

“Guillermo, Francisco, behave yourselves today. This is my daughter. She’s helping out until my son gets better.”

Francisco has a long, gaunt face. His skin is weathered and the lines bracketing his mouth hint at frowns rather than smiles. He looks old, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with a miner. They often look a lot older than they really are. Guillermo is much younger than Francisco, but his smooth, narrow face holds suspicious eyes. Neither of them looks very friendly.

“Hi.” I give them both a small smile and a wave.

The men give me sullen nods in return, but I can see that Papi is the leader of this little crew and I know I’ll be safe enough. Again, César is taking care of me.

“Let’s get going, then,” says Papi. And with no more introduction than that, we’re off.

Gathering ore turns out to be a backbreaking job, even more so than hand-drilling holes in solid rock. With two of us in front, and two behind, we push the heavy rail bin into the mine. We have to strain against it on the downhill slopes and push hard the few times the track slants upward. Then, when we get to the part of the tunnel nearest yesterday’s blast zone, we load chunks of rock into the bin. Some of the rocks are small enough for one person to do, but sometimes it takes two of us to lift them.

The pile we’re working from is on the floor of zone one. Another crew has the job of loading the rock fragments from zone eight into baskets and slings and carrying them up to us. As awful as it is to be on the ore-cart crew, I am very glad I didn’t get assigned to carry rocks over the wobbly-bridged ravine and up those spindly ladders.

Once the trolley is full, we have to push it back out. The cart is so heavy at this point that we all have to strain behind it to get it to roll uphill, and whenever there is a small downhill, we break into a run to get some momentum behind us for the next time the tunnel slopes up. Other miners in the tunnel leap out of our way when they hear the rumble of our wheels because the mine carts have no brakes. Next to me, Guillermo whispers about a miner who didn’t get out of the way in time and was crushed by the rolling tons of rock. His eyes glitter when he sees his story makes me uncomfortable. I like him even less.

Shivering against the image his words put in my head, I push harder, praying for everyone to get safely out of our way. There are so many ways to die in here, I’m losing count.

We make it out of the mine to the slag heap and dump the cart over. I consider it a minor miracle that we’ve all survived so far, but no one else seems to notice. Instead, we head in and do it again.

And again.

The day drags. The few times the men have enough breath to talk, they leave me out of their conversation entirely. Papi seems content to pretend I’m not there at all except when Francisco or Guillermo decide to make a dirty joke. Then he reminds them I’m here and they all lapse into sullen silence.

The first six hours of our shift pass mostly in this uncomfortable quiet; the clang of rocks hitting the inside of the ore bin the only sound marking the passing of time. At the midday break, I collapse on the ground and close my eyes, my body a misery and my mood bleak.

I lie against the pitted red rock and stare at the sky. I’ve never felt so starved for the sky before. I survey the entryway to the mine, examine the tired, dirty faces of the men and boys. I see Francisco and Guillermo sitting at the far end with Papi and another group of miners. Francisco is scowling at whatever the other men are saying, and it looks like Guillermo is tuning everyone else out instead of participating. Maybe it’s not me; maybe they’re just grumpy people. I decide that, after lunch, I will make more of an effort to talk to them. Nothing can be as bad as the boredom of doing awful work while everyone ignores you.

Victor’s arrival breaks up my bitter musing.

“Hi,” he says, lowering himself beside me and pulling off his helmet. He carefully extinguishes the flame and sets it next to him before he pulls out his lunch pack. I glance over and do a double take.

“Are those potatoes? In a sock?”

Victor’s grime-streaked face splits into a grin, his even teeth startling against the dark rock dust coating his skin and lips.

“What’s so weird about having potatoes for lunch?” he asks innocently.

“That,” I say sternly, pointing in case he missed it, “is a sock.”

He shrugs and runs his hands through his hair. It’s straight and black, like all of our hair, and his sweat makes it stick up at crazy angles. He doesn’t smooth it down.

“Yeah,” he admits. “But it’s a clean sock.”

Glancing across