Читать книгу Accidental Courtship - Lisa Bingham - Страница 11
ОглавлениеIt was well into the wee hours of the morning when Jonah stomped the snow off his boots, then let himself into the row house he’d been assigned when the buildings had first been erected.
As superintendent, he’d been given first pick of the living quarters and permission to be the sole occupant. But Jonah had seen no need for privacy or more space than he could handle, so he’d taken one of the smaller houses closest to the mine, then invited Creakle to room with him. The arrangement was practical, since Creakle spent as much time at the office as Jonah did. This way, he and Jonah could carry on their discussions in the off-hours, if they had a mind to do so.
Aware that Creakle would be asleep upstairs, Jonah moved quietly. He poked at the coals in the squat box stove in the corner, noting that Creakle had left a dented pot on the burner. A peek inside and a quick sniff made Jonah smile. Most of the miners had a preference for coffee—the blacker, the better. But Creakle had a fondness for cocoa. Where the man got the precious stuff, Jonah had no idea. Nevertheless, he was grateful that the older man had left him enough for a few cups.
Limping to the table, Jonah lifted a napkin from the tin plate, and found a hunk of bread, a large piece of cheese and slices of cold ham.
The sight of the food caused his stomach to rumble, and Jonah realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Thankfully, Creakle tended to look after him with the devotion of a maiden aunt.
Jonah threw his hat on the table and hung his jacket on the hook by the door. As he made the lamp brighter, he couldn’t remember ever being so tired. His body ached and his hands were raw from digging in the snow—even though Creakle had appeared at the avalanche site to distribute fresh gloves to everyone several times during the day.
Testing the bucket of water left near the stove, Jonah splashed a healthy measure into a basin, plunged his hands in to the wrists, then washed his face. Hissing at the sting of his wind-burned skin, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. Only three hours remained before he was scheduled to return for the morning Devotional where the men would indulge in an hour of worship before descending into the mine. He wasn’t sure if the ache in his back would let him nod off, but he sure meant to try.
His gaze slid to the stairs, knowing that a comfortable feather bed awaited him. But the steps looked like a sheer slope a hundred miles high, so...
He wiped his face off with an old towel, then sat on the edge of an old hickory rocker that had once belonged to his mother. Hissing, he nudged his boots off with his toes. A folded blanket lay on the table nearby. Next to it lay a bottle of liniment and a flannel.
Who needed a wife when Creakle was around?
He moved gingerly, mentally assessing new aches and old wounds. He wiggled his toes, then his feet, then allowed himself to breathe a little easier. Near as he could tell, he had no numbness or tingling other than that caused by the cold.
Safe for another day.
Jonah was about to settle back—even if it meant foregoing the warm cup of cocoa and the plateful of food—when there was a sharp rap at the door.
Now what?
Barring the entire mine collapsing, he wasn’t in the mood for company. But late-night interruptions were part of the job.
Hauling himself to his feet, he padded to the door, whipped it open and offered a curt, “What is it?”
He immediately regretted his harsh tone when he saw Miss Havisham standing on his doorstep, her hand poised to knock again.
“Dr. Havisham,” Jonah drawled. They’d parted company less than an hour earlier, and he would have thought that her pride would still be too dented to warrant a confrontation with Jonah. Yet, here she was, standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour.
She lowered her hand and shifted uncomfortably.
“Mr. Ramsey. I...uh... I hope you’ll pardon my interrupting your night like this.”
So formal. So... British.
She chafed her hands together, but he was betting it had more to do with nerves than the cold.
When she didn’t speak, he peered behind her and said, “Actually, I think we’ve left night far behind us and we’re well on to morning.”
She grimaced, but didn’t appear inclined to leave. “Be that as it may, what I have to say won’t wait.”
He was beginning to understand why Batchwell and Bottoms had insisted on the “no women” clause. He sighed, holding the door wider. “Then you may as well come in.”
Her lips thinned. Which was a shame.
“I don’t think that would be...appropriate, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Miss—”
She scowled.
“Dr. Havisham,” he corrected himself quickly. “I think we sailed past appropriate hours ago. And I, for one, don’t intend to stand in the cold waiting for a formal invitation. So you can either come in where it’s warm, or you can hold your peace until morning.”
A crease appeared between her brows, but she didn’t move.
“If it will make you feel better, Gus Creakle lives here, as well. He’s as good a chaperone as you’re going to get in these parts, especially in the wee hours. I promise. Neither he, nor I, will bite.”
She finally offered a grudging, “Very well, then.”
He held the door open, allowing her to step inside, then closed it before the winter air could taint the warmth of the kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of cocoa?”
Her brows lifted.
“Creakle has a fondness for the stuff, and he’s left me half a pot.” He hooked a finger through a pair of tin mugs stacked on the open shelf above the dry sink.
She shook her head, but when he poured a healthy measure into one of the cups, he saw the way she breathed deeply of its heady scent.
“I insist, Dr. Havisham. A nice cup of cocoa will warm you up before you have to brave the cold again.”
Miss Havisham hesitated, but finally took it, wrapping her hands tightly around the mug.
Too late, Jonah realized that Dr. Havisham, for all her bravado, didn’t have a coat—and the dress she wore offered no real protection against the elements.
“Have a seat over there near the stove.”
He gestured to the worn, overstuffed chair that Creakle had ordered all the way from Boston nearly a half dozen years ago. It was old and scarred and had begun to conform to the shape of Creakle’s backside, but, other than Jonah’s rocker, it was the only comfortable chair in the house.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I—”
“Miss... Dr. Havisham,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “I’ve been on my feet all day, and good manners forbid me from sitting until you do.”
She looked instantly ashamed. “Oh, of course.”
Dr. Havisham brushed by him in a wave of something that smelled like...orange blossoms? Then she sank into the chair in a flutter of skirts. Funny how he hadn’t noticed until now that her dress was a good six inches too short. And the bust was a little too large. Had she borrowed it to replace the wet and torn suit she’d worn while tending to the wounded? Although the simple brown garment was serviceable enough, especially with the overwhelming apron, it couldn’t have offered her much warmth.
The thought made Jonah feel unaccountably...guilty.
“Would you like a blanket to put around your shoulders?”
She stiffened—as if the very idea was a mark of weakness, or worse, a sign that she’d strayed into the realms of impropriety.
“No. Thank you.”
He gestured to the food Creakle had left on the table. “Did Stumpy bring you a plate like I requested? Creakle’s left me more than I could eat.”
“I’m fine. But you should have your dinner, Mr. Ramsey. You must be starving.”
Her pronouncement was firm, but he saw the way her eyes skipped from him, to the plate, then back again. Ever so subtly, she moistened her lips.
Which told Jonah that Stumpy, cantankerous man that he was, probably hadn’t roused out of his bed long enough to send her anything.
“Please. I insist you have your dinner, Mr. Ramsey. We can talk while you eat.”
Jonah didn’t bother to ask her again. Instead, he grabbed another plate from the cupboard, then two knives and forks. After dividing the generous portions in half, he handed her the food and a set of utensils.
“Dig in,” he said curtly. “Or we don’t talk.”
She opened her mouth—and he was sure she meant to argue—but she finally offered a soft, “Thank you.”
Taking his own meal, Jonah settled into the rocker, wincing slightly.
“Do you want to say grace, or shall I?” he asked.
“Oh, I...uh—”
Obviously, she thought he was a complete heathen because his suggestion startled her. So Jonah bowed his head, closed his eyes and offered, “For this and all we are about to receive, we are truly grateful. Amen.”
“Amen.”
For the first time that night, Jonah was able to sink back into the rocking chair and allow the tension to flow from his tired muscles. But something about his expression must have alerted the doctor, because she eyed him with concern, and her close scrutiny had the power to set his teeth on edge. He’d seen that look often enough in the last ten years. It smacked of pity—and if there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was pity. But he managed to avoid her gaze by concentrating on tearing his biscuit in half and piling it with ham and cheese.
“Were you injured today?” she asked gently.
The woman was observant. He had to give her that at least.
“No.”
“You seem to be favoring your back. Have you pulled a muscle?”
“No, ma’am. It’s merely an aggravation of an old wound.”
She looked unconvinced.
“Honest, Doc.”
“Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”
He shook his head.
“Because I’d be happy to take a look at you if you’d like.”
“No!” The protest burst from his lips with such vehemence that he quickly added, “I’m more than capable of applying liniment all on my own.”
Her eyes grew dark, causing a curious twisting sensation in his chest, but he pushed the reaction aside. He’d been to enough doctors and quacks to last a lifetime—and he certainly wasn’t about to add a female surgeon to the mix.
Even so, it was clear that Dr. Havisham was intent on gnawing the issue like a dog with a bone.
“But even if this complaint is one you’ve experienced before, you may have truly injured yourself today.”
He knew the last thing he needed was this woman pulling up his shirt to poke and prod at the scars on his back. Hadn’t he already seen what the sight did to the gentler sex?
Becca hadn’t been able to stomach the sight, even when the wounds had healed to pinkish scars. Jonah would be hanged before he’d allow another woman to get close enough to see them ever again.
“No. Thank you, Dr. Havisham,” he said with a firmness that bordered on rudeness. “Look, it’s late and I’m tired. Maybe you should tell me why you’re here.”
She didn’t immediately speak. Instead, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. Brown, brown eyes.
“You are a very stubborn man, Mr. Ramsey. I might be able to help you. My schooling included a course in the latest advances in surgery and—”
He sighed. “I think we already went through your many qualifications during your interview with Batchwell and Bottoms.”
“As you well know, I left that discussion without managing to impress upon either gentleman the full extent of my education.”
He knew she was reliving each harsh word that had been uttered in the mining office. Although Phineas Bottoms had seen fit to listen in placid silence, Ezra Batchwell had not been so reticent. He’d accused Dr. Havisham of fraud, dismissed her competence and had even questioned her sanity. Then he’d vowed to ruin her if she didn’t leave the valley as soon as humanly possible.
Although Jonah would have been the first to admit that the mine was no place for a woman, he thought that Batchwell had been a little harsh. As one of the fairer sex, she should have been offered a gentler dismissal.
“Dr. Havisham, why are you here in Aspen Valley?” he asked, dodging her question with one of his own. “What on earth possessed you to sign up for employment at a silver mine?”
She met his gaze with a directness he wasn’t accustomed to receiving from a woman.
“Why should I confide in you, Mr. Ramsey? I asked you the same question mere hours ago and you refused to answer.”
There was a note of challenge in those melodic tones, and old memories threatened to swamp him. He was transported to another life...the company of another woman. But all that was gone now. In the space of a heartbeat, the thunder of cannon and men’s screams, he’d been stripped of that future—as well as his ability to ever feel so deeply about another woman again.
Jerking his gaze away, Ramsey offered, “Like most of the men here, I came in search of a new start. And you, Dr. Havisham?”
She poked the edge of her biscuit with her fork. “I wanted to go where I could do some good.”
“But why here? You admitted to the owners that most of your actual doctoring was at a women’s hospital.” When she didn’t explain, he added, “To put it bluntly, you’ve spent the last few years of your career as a baby doctor. Why would you come to the only community that would have no need of such services?”
She made a show of cutting a piece of meat, and loading her fork. Then she slipped the food into her mouth and chewed with great thoroughness before saying, “There was nothing in the advertisement that stated women weren’t allowed to apply.”
“I would have thought the ‘no women’ clause that this mine is well known for having would have been a huge clue.”
“The miners are forbidden to have emotional entanglements. There was no mention of the support staff having a similar rule.”
She was purposely taking the conversation in circles, and they’d been through all that with Batchwell and Bottoms, so Jonah decided to cut to the chase. “But why do you want to work here, Dr. Havisham?”
She placed her plate on the table. She hadn’t eaten everything, but she’d come close.
“You spoke of the men coming to Batchwell Bottoms to better themselves, Mr. Ramsey. Am I to be excluded of the opportunity because of my sex?”
“Come now, Miss Havisham. Why would you come to a mining community famous for its exclusion of women?”
She finally met him in the eye. “I’ve spent my life knocking down fences, Mr. Ramsey. Perhaps I saw it as another fence.”
Jonah could tell from the soft flash of her eyes and the thread of steel in her tone that she was telling him the truth—at least a part of it. From what little he knew of her already, he supposed that she’d been rebelling against the narrow confines of her gender since the moment that her father had seen fit to give her a boy’s name. Had the man held it against her that she hadn’t been born male? Or had he blamed her somehow for her mother’s demise?
There was obviously more to her motives than a simple act of rebellion, but the tilt of her chin made it clear that she wouldn’t be telling him anytime soon, because she took a quick sip of her cocoa, then asked, “I came here tonight because I was wondering when you and your men would be returning to the wreckage.”
His brows rose. “That was your emergency?”
“Yes. When will you be going back?”
“Near as I can tell...next spring.”
“But you can’t! You and your men have to go back tomorrow!”
Jonah took a deep swig of the cocoa, nearly burning his tongue. “Why’s that?”
“We...the women...we need our things.”
He offered a bark of laughter. “I’m afraid that some dresses and petticoats aren’t worth the lives of my men.”
“It’s not just dresses and petticoats, Mr. Ramsey. The women were rescued wearing only the most basic of clothing. If we’re to be marooned here for days—possibly weeks—we’ll need those bags.”
“Why? According to Batchwell, none of you will be allowed beyond the hall steps until such time as we can convey all of you to the nearest town.”
Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the lamp. For all intents and purposes, Dr. Havisham had been told that—contract or no contract—at the first possible convenience, she’d be sent packing.
“You and I both know that such an arrangement is unfeasible. At some point, the women will need to take the air.”
“They can take all the air they want. All they have to do is open a window.”
She shook her head. “That will never do. These women aren’t prisoners, Mr. Ramsey.”
“They aren’t exactly invited guests.”
“So they’re to be punished? From what I can see, the other passengers—the crew, the stranded farmers and businessmen, even the families—aren’t being held to the same constraints.”
Hoping to avoid a full-fledged argument, Jonah chose his words with care. “Not punished. Consider it...protected.”
“Protected? From what? Life?”
“This is a mining community, Dr. Havisham. By definition, that means that it is inhabited by a bunch of men.”
“Are your employees convicts? Of ill-repute?”
“No.”
“Then you hold them in so little esteem that you believe they will...what? Explode? If they get too close to an unattached woman?”
“Not at all, Miss Havisham.”
“Doctor.”
“Look... Sumner—may I call you Sumner?”
“No.” Her look was obstinate, but she finally relented. “Oh, very well.”
“All right... Sumner. The men here are tasked with a difficult and dangerous job—”
“The women have no designs on going into the mine, Mr. Ramsey.”
“If I’m to call you Sumner, then you must call me Jonah,” he offered impatiently.
It was clear that she was loath to embrace such informality, but he waited until she finally conceded.
“Very well. Jonah.” She took another sip of her cocoa. “The women will confine their activities to the town proper.”
“No.”
“No?”
“As I was saying, the men of Batchwell Bottoms have been chosen with great care. In order to even apply for a job here, they have to prove that they already have a good deal of mining experience. But that’s not the only measure of whether or not they’ll get a position. These miners have to prove that they are God-fearing men of good character—”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.
“—and then, they have to agree to certain stipulations—”
“I know, I know. No drinking, cussing, smoking, gambling and no womanizing.”
Clearly, she’d read the advertisement for employment carefully, even if she’d omitted mentioning that she was a woman applying for a man’s job.
“If you will remember, the advertisements state ‘no women.’ They do not use the term womanizing.”
“I simply assumed—”
“Then you assumed wrong. These men have given up a lot to be here—including tailoring their behavior to a certain code of conduct. But that’s not the most significant sacrifice they’ve made, Sumner. Most of these miners come from back east, the British Isles, Italy and Greece. In order to pay for their passages to the wilds of Utah, the vast majority of them have signed an agreement to work for five years to pay off the debt. Despite the nickname this place has earned, not all of them came to us as bachelors.”
He pointed to the window where the sky was already beginning to turn to gray. “Out there are fathers, brothers, husbands and sweethearts who have agreed to spend years away from their loved ones in order to make a new future, not just for themselves, but for their families. They’re willing to do the job and live with untold privations so that, one day, they can send for them.”
“I hardly think that our group would—”
“They will be a temptation.”
“One we can rebuff.”
“But worse,” Jonah continued, “they’ll be a reminder, Sumner. And sometimes, simply seeing a reminder of what you’re missing can be the cruelest form of torture.”
To her credit, she finally fell silent. For several minutes, she ruminated on his words.
“Are you missing someone, Jonah?”
The question was so unexpected—and far too personal for their short acquaintance—that for a moment, Jonah was taken aback.
Rebecca.
No.
She wasn’t his to miss. She hadn’t been for a very long time.
Jonah could have commented on Sumner’s lack of tact—not to mention her impudence. But he answered honestly.
“No. I’m here for the long haul.”
The words held grim finality when spoken aloud, but he couldn’t take them back. It was the truth. Rebecca, his former fiancée, had found a new man to share her life with. One who was free from unsightly scars. One whose body wouldn’t betray him one day, as Jonah’s was bound to do.
Sumner sighed and said, “Be that as it may, Mr. Ramsey—”
“Jonah.”
She grimaced. “Jonah. The women will still need their belongings.”
He couldn’t prevent a short bark of laughter. “And what’s so important that I should risk the lives of my men on unstable packs of snow less than a day after we’ve already suffered one avalanche?”
She lowered her mug, and he couldn’t account for the way it pleased him when he found that it was empty.
“You’ve spoken of the sacrifices of your miners. But what you haven’t yet acknowledged is that your employees aren’t the only ones sacrificing a great deal. Most of those women were on that train as a group of mail-order brides heading west, and they’ve paid just as dearly for their passages. They have no way to notify anyone about the delay they’ve encountered—so, who knows if they will have husbands waiting for them when they finally arrive at their destinations? Furthermore, the women brought all of their belongings with them—some of them valuable heirlooms and household goods needed to start their lives as married women. The longer their trunks lie moldering in the snow, the more the women will have lost precious ties to families and homes they’ve left behind. I think that even you would have to admit that being stranded here could hold untold ramifications.”
She paused, but it was clear that she wasn’t finished.
“Therefore, I think that it’s only reasonable for you and your men to provide these women with their belongings. As it is, most of them have little more than the clothes on their backs. Indeed, since you force me to be blunt, they have no extra...undergarments to tide them through until washing day. Very few of them have coats or scarves or mittens. And despite this valley’s fondness for its Miners’ Hall, there is a draft. Especially in the upper rooms. Added to that, these ladies will need combs, brushes and other personal items. The sooner, the better.”
“Or...”
“Or the women may find it necessary to protest by marching down Main Street.” She set her cup aside and rose to her feet. “And since many of them now have garments that are completely unwearable, your men may get more of a reminder of what they’re missing than you’d ever anticipated.”
With that, she sailed from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Leaving Jonah wondering what would Miss Havisham be left wearing if she decided to make good on her threat?
* * *
“Sumner!”
Sumner moaned as the voice pierced her consciousness.
“Miss!”
She blinked, vainly trying to focus. But since she’d spent hours mulling over her conversation with Jonah Ramsey—reviewing every word the man had said—she’d wound herself tighter than a spring and sleep had become nearly impossible.
Her eyes drifted shut.
“Dr. Havisham, please!”
A hand shook her shoulder and Sumner’s eyes opened again. This time, she came face-to-face with Willow Granger.
“Willow?” she croaked. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine, fine. I’ve got a bruise big as a dinner plate, but most of the swelling has gone down.”
Willow was one of the reasons why Sumner had felt it necessary to approach Jonah at such an unreasonable hour. After tending to the woman’s leg, Sumner had found the girl crying in one of the rear supply closets. While the other mail-order brides had slipped out of their torn, wet clothing and hung their frocks to dry, Willow had clutched at the shapeless dress she wore. After divining that Willow had spent most of her adolescence in a strict charity school, Sumner had realized that the young woman had been unable to bring herself to strip down to her “shimmies” even if it was only in the presence of other women. Sumner had helped her to fashion a robe of sorts out of a pair of blankets so that Willow could rinse the mud from her hems and allow her dress to dry. For that, Sumner had earned herself a loyal assistant.
Willow regarded her with glittering blue eyes. In the early-morning glare, her skin was pale and spattered with freckles, and her curly red hair hung around her heart-shaped face like a wild mane.
Sumner cleared her throat, then rasped, “What is it, Willow?”
“There’s a man at the door. He says he’ll only talk to you.”
Jonah?
She scrambled up from the pallet on the floor. Automatically, her hands flew to her hair, and she squeaked when she realized that it was a mass of tangles.
“You’d better hurry. He said he didn’t have much time.”
Sumner glanced down at herself and fought the urge to squeal in protest. Besides being ill-fitting, her borrowed day dress was wrinkled, the print faded from years of wear. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about the way the hem nearly topped her boots.
She supposed she should be thankful she wasn’t answering the door in her all-togethers.
Nevertheless, she opened the door only a few inches and peered out, hoping it would prove unnecessary to step into the cold.
She sagged in relief when she found Creakle grinning at her, his hat in his hands. But she couldn’t help looking past him to see if Jonah was there, as well.
“Morning, missy!”
“Mr. Creakle.”
“This here’s Willoughby Smalls.”
Creakle pointed to his companion, who had to be at least seven feet tall with a squared-off jaw and a body as big and broad as a mountain.
“Mr. Smalls.”
“Willoughby don’t talk none, on account of how he was hit in the throat by a falling beam. But if you ever need some heavy liftin’, he’s your man.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smalls. I appreciate that kind offer.”
She thought the man might have blushed as he continued to stare at her, his grin growing wider with each passing moment. But when he didn’t speak, she finally prompted, “Did you men need something?”
“Oh. Oh, yes!” Creakle stepped back and made a flourishing sweep of his hand to something beyond her range of sight. “I’d ferget my head if’n it weren’t screwed on. Jonah asked me t’ make sure you got this.”
She slipped through the door and shut it tightly behind her. But when she saw the neat stacks of trunks and valises piled on the boardwalk, she couldn’t help gasping in delight.
“How on earth did Mr. Ramsey manage to do all this so quickly?”
Creakle snickered. “He offered the men two bits fer every trunk they managed t’ deliver before noon.” He nudged Smalls in the side with his elbow. “Willoughby an’ me have already made ourselves more’n five bucks a piece.” He glanced down at a watch he pulled from his vest. “I ’spect you’ll have the rest of it delivered by lunchtime.” He nodded and jammed his hat over his head. “Now, I know how you womenfolk like to have things just so, so’s I’m leaving Willoughby here t’ tote them trunks and boxes wherever you want them t’ go. Keep him with you as long as you like. He’s not due down in the mine until this evening.”
Creakle slid a glance in Smalls’s direction and the man nodded. Then, offering a hefty sigh, Creakle said, “Wish I could stay an’ help, but I’m needed at the office.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Good mornin’ t’ you, ma’am.” Then he began marching in the direction of the mine offices.
It was only then that Sumner became aware of several men in black wool coats posted near the main door and at either end of the Miners’ Hall.
“Mr. Creakle!”
He turned, squinting in her direction. “Yes, ma’am?”
Sumner couldn’t think of a discreet way of asking, so she decided to be direct. “Who are these other gentlemen?”
The men in question turned, revealing that they had holsters strapped to their hips and carried rifles in addition to their revolvers.
“They’re the company Pinkertons, ma’am.”
Her gaze bounced over the Pinkertons, one by one. In addition to their identical wool coats, they wore dark navy tunics with shiny badges.
“Pinkertons? But why are they here?”
“This here’s a silver mine, Dr. Havisham. Y’ gotta have security in a place like this.”
She shook her head. “No, Mr. Creakle. That’s not what I meant. Why are these men here?”
She gestured with her finger to the Miners’ Hall.
Creakle shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Ramsey ordered it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Creakle began backing away from her.
“He said it was fer y’all’s protection.”
Protection?
Sumner stiffened, an old familiar resentment filling her like white-hot steam. Of all the low-down, sneaky, conniving tricks. A trio of armed Pinkertons had been stationed outside a building filled with women who were injured, traumatized and at the complete mercy of their unwilling hosts? And Mr. Ramsey wanted them all to believe that it was for their protection?
Apparently, she and Mr. Ramsey needed to have another talk.
