Free Town Square, The by Ava Miles Page B

shouted when they reached the rope.
    A man with an orange hard hat looked over his shoulder and then said something to the rest of the team before jogging toward them, his boots making huge muddy imprints in the snow.
    The men shook hands. Arthur introduced Harriet and offered Paul a cigarette. The man took a long drag, his gaze searching over their shoulders for a moment, as if taking in the scene behind them.
    “What can you tell me?” Arthur asked.
    His eyes flicked to Harriet, a question in them.
    “You can talk in front of her. She won’t say anything.”
    “It’s bad,” he said. “We haven’t heard anything from the men, which means they’re in deep. We’re waiting for other rescue teams to show up and start shoveling, but there was a blizzard to the south and west of us last night. Crews are having trouble digging out of that, and the roads are shit.”
    “What about the men from the surrounding towns?” Arthur asked.
    “I’m about ready to ask for volunteers.”
    Arthur handed her his notepad. “You’re looking at one.”
    Harriet turned to stare at him. His mouth was a grim line of determination.
    “I thought you’d gotten too fancy for any real work out East,” Paul responded, his mouth tipping up. “I’ve heard you’re even wearing loafers. A far cry from the days when you and I would face off across the center line on the football field.”
    “What I would say to you if a lady weren’t present…” Arthur only responded. “Why don’t you let me round up some other volunteers from the camp? You have plenty to do.”
    Paul clapped him on the back. “Fine. It’s good to have you back, Hale.”
    “It’s good to be back,” he responded.
    The man turned and ran back toward the mine.
    “What about the story?” Harriet asked, totally confused. Journalists were supposed to stand on the sidelines, right? Observe? Analyze? Not get involved.
    “There are twenty–one men down there fighting for their lives. The story can wait.”
    He strode off toward the camp, his arms pumping with new vigor. Trailing in his wake, she realized she was more than a little in awe of him.
    Even though he was younger than all the men in the camp, he found an apple crate someone had brought and stood on it in the center of the camp.
    “Some of the surrounding rescue teams have been delayed by the blizzard last night. We need volunteers to help get the men out. Who’s with me?” He thrust his fist into the air.
    There was no loud cheer, but his short and sweet speech was like a battlefield cry of old. Men moved toward him from all sides. He shook their hands. Slapped some on the back. Always looking into their eyes when he did.
    Arthur was very good at inspiring people.
    He met her gaze, and for a moment, the punch of that fiery blue stole her breath.
    Then they set off, the old and even older, men whose sons and grandsons were buried alive. When Arthur reached the rope, he flung it aside, and they all approached the rubble–strewn opening to hell.
    Paul gave them instructions, and then the men took the shovels they were given from a nearby truck and headed toward the mine.
    No one wore a hard hat. They were just a band of men, willing to put their lives on the line for the men who were trapped below.
    Arthur led the way, his natural leadership evident. Why hadn’t she seen the full power of his charisma until now?
    His shovel penetrated the earth first as he put his back into it.
    The men dug for four hours straight, slowly carving a path through the rubble. Harriet and some of the other women stood waiting with coffee at the rope line, which was now back in place.
    Every now and then, the men would dash over to take a gulp. Then they’d head back, determination in every step. The small team of rescue workers continued digging for hours and hours. Lumber beams were hammered in place to fortify the makeshift entrance they’d dug and to prevent another cave–in.
    Arthur found her on the few breaks he took,