Free Spirit of the Valley by Jane Shoup Page A

tell me.”
    â€œThe mother in my dream . . . was you,” Lizzie said, finishing in a whisper. Tears filled her eyes, especially when Cessie looked stunned. “I saw the picture of you as a young woman and that’s her. I mean you. You were my dream mother.”
    â€œOh, honey,” Cessie breathed, overwhelmed at the statement. She reached out and they grabbed each other’s hands.
    â€œRebecca mentioned John, and I wondered if he was my dream father, but it wasn’t him.”
    â€œNo, he . . . he didn’t have dark hair.”
    â€œI know who he was though,” Lizzie said, reaching into her pocket for the photograph of a young Lionel. “It was him,” she said, handing it to Cessie.
    Cessie sucked in a breath as she looked at the photograph. She smiled first and then tears welled in her eyes. She turned and made her way to the table and sat. “He showed me this once. I wondered where it was.”
    Lizzie followed her and sat. “It’s yours.”
    â€œOh no. I want you to have it. After all, he was your papa,” she said with a smile. “And I have him here,” she said, tapping her chest. “And here,” she added, pointing to her head. She looked at the picture again and then handed it back. “Tell me the dream again,” she said wistfully.
    â€œYou believe me,” Lizzie said wonderingly. It wasn’t a question because she could see the truth in Cessie’s eyes.
    â€œOf course I do. Oh, honey, I know the power of dreams. I know how the other side reaches through to touch us and guide us. It’s happened to me, too.” She leaned back. “Just think of all the significance in your dream. At the time, it gave you a feeling of belonging that you needed. Now, it proves you’re in the right place. That you’ve come home.”
    Lizzie took hold of Cessie’s hand.
    â€œWhat was I wearing?” Cessie asked.
    The question was delightful, and Lizzie laughed even as she had to blink back tears.

Chapter Eight
    In a coal mine known as Six, at a depth no sunlight penetrated, the blackness so dense it was palpable and disorienting, Jeremy worked with a pick and a wedge to extract the last chunks of coal from the wall without shattering it. He was lying on his side in a narrow seam, his concentration complete, and the only light came from the not quite three-inch kerosene lamp in his hat and the hat and lantern of Liam Baskerville, his helper. Liam assisted mainly by piling extracted coal into a bin, but at present he wasn’t doing much more than providing company. He’d been Jeremy’s partner in the mine from the beginning, almost eight years now, and he’d been a reliable one. But these days, this late in the day, Liam’s vigor was shot. He started the work day well enough at six a.m., but by four, he was done for.
    â€œMy nephew started work today,” Liam said. “Newest breaker boy.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œNine years old,” Liam lamented.
    This caused a moment’s pause. “Nine?”
    â€œHe lied,” Liam said with a shrug of his bony shoulders. “Said he was twelve. Family needs the money since William took sick.”
    Jeremy knew, of course, that William, Liam’s brother-in-law and a fellow miner, had miner’s asthma so bad he could no longer work. Liam had it too, although he hadn’t fully admitted it yet. His struggle to breathe and the coughing fits made it obvious, but not as obvious as it would become as the condition progressed. Miner’s asthma wasted a man down to skin and bone. It was as if a vise slowly closed around the throat so a person couldn’t draw enough air into the lungs. In the end, a man had to choose between breathing and eating; they simply couldn’t do both. It was a bad way to die.
    But nine years of age. It wasn’t shocking, exactly, but it was sad. Jeremy had seen the breaker boys at play on their