Читать книгу Accidental Courtship - Lisa Bingham - Страница 12

Chapter Four

“Lord, give me strength,” Sumner murmured to herself as she slapped her best bonnet on her head.

“What are you going to do?” Willow asked, reluctantly holding up a hand mirror so that Sumner could check her reflection.

Sumner had tried her best to keep the news of the Pinkertons a secret, but she hadn’t been very successful. Although many of the mail-order brides had been diverted with checking the contents of their trunks, changing into fresh frocks and setting up a washing station, a few of them had noticed the armed men posted outside their door. As Sumner shrugged into her coat, she spoke softly to the small knot of women who stood with her.

Besides Willow Granger, there was Iona Skye, a widow in her sixties who had traveled with them since New York City. Unable to make ends meet on her own, she was destined for her sister’s farm in California. Beside her stood Lydia Tomlinson, an effervescent blonde from Boston, who, along with Iona, were the only women not contracted to become mail-order brides. Lydia was en route to San Francisco, where she would embark on a lecture tour to spread the word about women’s suffrage and temperance. The last few members of the group hovering around Sumner were a trio of brides-to-be, Ruth Hubbard, Stefania Nicos and Marie Rousseau.

“What are you going to say to the man?” Stefania whispered.

Lydia scowled. “She’s going to tell Mr. Ramsey that we aren’t convicts, we’re stranded travelers.”

The conversation washed over Sumner as she checked her hair and gown as much as the small mirror would allow. Thankfully, among the trunks and valises that Mr. Smalls had carried into the hall, she’d managed to find her own things—and therefore, a change of clothing, her brush and a fresh stock of hairpins. Through it all, she’d tried her best to maintain a semblance of calm, but inwardly...

Inwardly, she’d been seething.

“Please don’t let me lose my temper,” she whispered under her breath.

Lydia Tomlinson must have heard her because she cocked her head to the side and offered, “Nonsense. You need to go into the office with guns blazing, Sumner. Don’t hide your emotions behind that unflappable English charm. Otherwise, they’ll be locking us in soon. And I, for one, am already stir-crazy.”

The other women nodded in agreement.

“We all know that the arrival of the Pinkertons—and the weak excuse of their being here for our protection—is nothing more than an opening volley in a declaration of war.”

Sumner supposed the other women were right. After conversing with Jonah Ramsey, she’d deluded herself into thinking that the man could be pragmatic, perhaps even a bit empathetic toward the women’s plight. And for one brief second, when she’d seen their belongings on the boardwalk, she’d believed the man might be persuaded to look at the situation from the women’s point of view.

She’d obviously been mistaken. Sadly mistaken. Apparently, Jonah Ramsey was cut from the same cloth as her father, her stepbrother, her professors and all of the other opinionated males she’d encountered over the past few years. Clearly, Sumner seemed doomed to butt heads with men who were determined to squash women into what they felt was “their place,” and the superintendent of the Batchwell Bottoms mine was no different.

But this time, it wasn’t just Sumner who was being repressed. It was all of the women who were in her care. And it was time to set the record straight.

“How do I look?” she breathed, realizing that she’d already fussed over her preparations long enough.

Iona reached out to squeeze her hand. “You appear very calm, cool and collected. Every inch a lady.”

If only that were true.

“You’ll do fine, Sumner,” Willow offered quietly.

Sumner nodded, then opened the door and slipped outside while the rest of the brides were distracted with instructing Mr. Smalls where to move their trunks.

The frigid air against her hot cheeks was welcome as she turned toward the mine offices. But she’d only taken a few steps when she was halted by one of the Pinkertons. He even had the utter gall to brandish his weapon in warning.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’ve been asked to keep you here.”

“Your name?” she asked abruptly.

“Lester Dobbs.”

“Am I under arrest, Mr. Dobbs?”

The guard’s brows creased, his mustache twitching in confusion.

“Ma’am?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then you can get out of my way or you can trail along behind me. But those are your only two choices because I intend to talk to Mr. Ramsey.” When the man didn’t budge, Sumner allowed a portion of her frustration to tinge her tone. “Now.”

To his credit, the Pinkerton tried to stand his ground—he even attempted to meet the blazing intensity in her gaze. Before long, Dobbs sighed, lowered his rifle and allowed her to pass. Even so, as she stormed toward the mining offices, he trailed along behind her, clearly embarrassed with the assignment he’d been given.

Sumner balled her hands into fists and increased her speed. What fueled her anger wasn’t the fact that she’d had to fight—tooth and nail—to gain an education and a career, that she’d been thrown the scraps of opportunities lavished on men with half the talent and dedication that she’d displayed in her chosen profession. No, what infuriated her was that these women—women who had been injured, stranded and placed in her protection—were to be so cavalierly mistreated just because someone had deemed them “inconvenient.”

No, no, no.

Since obtaining her diploma and emancipating herself from her father’s overbearing rule, she’d pledged that she would never allow a man to control her again—and that she would fight for the same rights for other women, as well.

But even as the frigid gusts of wind stung her cheeks, common sense managed to wriggle its way into her brain. After last night’s confrontation with the owners, Sumner knew she was walking a fine line. As much as she might rail against the men in charge, there was also a part of her that wanted—needed—to make a good impression.

After completing her medical training, she’d found it nearly impossible to find a position. The best she’d managed to scrape up was a midwife’s assistant’s job at a woman’s hospital in Bristol. She’d spent over a year scouring every advertisement she could find for work. So, when, on a whim, she’d applied to the Batchwell Bottoms mine and they’d offered a five-year contract, it hadn’t occurred to her that a mistake might have been made. She’d wanted this job so badly. When she’d realized the owners had assumed she was a man, she’d been so sure that she could impress the owners with her skills and make a place for herself in the wilds of the US Territories.

Unfortunately, during her first real meeting with Batchwell and Bottoms, they’d made it clear that she would never work as the company doctor.

But Sumner wasn’t about to give up without a fight. First, she had a signed, notarized, five-year contract. That had to mean something, didn’t it? Even more importantly, now that the avalanche had marooned her in the valley, she was the only physician available. All she needed was a little time to prove her talent for medicine.

As she clutched the doorknob to the office, her heart pounded, her knees trembled and all the energy drained from her.

She couldn’t storm into Mr. Ramsey’s office in a fit of pique.

Closing her eyes, she offered a quick prayer for guidance. Lord, please show me how to proceed. Help me to help others.

Feeling calmer, she took a deep breath of icy air.

Tact. That’s what the situation required. Tact and diplomacy.

Sumner glanced behind her to see that Pinkerton Dobbs had kept pace with her the entire way.

Lord, help me stay calm.

Knowing that if she waited another moment she might lose her nerve, as well, Sumner twisted the knob and plunged into the warmth of the mining offices.

In an instant, she was inundated with the scents of hot coffee, wood smoke and pine shavings. Homey, manly smells that swirled around her along with half-forgotten memories of her grandfather.

There had been a time when she’d been accepted for who she was, when Poppy had let her climb on his knee and chatter about her dreams of being a doctor. She’d been ten when Poppy had bought her a book with anatomical drawings. To her, the muscles and bones had been more beautiful than the fashion drawings found in the periodicals her stepmother tried to get her to read. But when her father had discovered the book hidden beneath her bed, he’d thrown it in the fire, then had made her stand and watch it burn.

Behind her, the latch snapped back into place and a brass bell offered a muted jingle. In that instant, all eyes swung in her direction and the three men in the office froze.

If the reaction hadn’t been so disheartening, Sumner might have laughed at the trio of comical expressions. Mr. Creakle, the only man she recognized from the previous day, sat slack-jawed from behind his desk. Another gentleman with sad, basset-hound eyes and jowls, was half-bent toward the fire, a chunk of wood held toward the blaze. The third fellow—who was little more than a gangly teenager—stood blinking at her from where he sat on a high stool, a collection of miner’s lanterns laid out on a table in front of him in various stages of completion.

The combined weight of their gazes was nearly overwhelming, but she managed to say, “I’d like to see Mr. Ramsey, please.”

They didn’t move, and Sumner resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. Honestly, she didn’t see a need for the Pinkertons. So far, what few miners she’d encountered at Bachelor Bottoms appeared completely tongue-tied in the presence of a female.

The young man suddenly sneezed, and that seemed to break the odd trance because the two other gentlemen shouted out simultaneously, “Boss!”

A moment later, Sumner heard boots clattering down the steps on the other end of the building. Then Jonah stepped into view.

Sumner had forgotten how tall he was. Tall and broad-shouldered. He filled the doorframe. In the sunlight streaming through the mullion windows, she could see the circular impression in his hair where his hat had been. The bright rays picked out threads of silver at his temples and in his beard. He wore a dark leather vest with a soft linen shirt beneath.

After so many years spent in schools and hospitals where men took great pains with their grooming, there was something almost...wild...about his appearance. Nevertheless, Sumner couldn’t fault Jonah’s casual disregard for current fashion. If anything, his lack of formality echoed the ruggedness of the terrain that surrounded them.

Sumner tipped her chin at an angle. “Mr. Ramsey, may I have a word, please?”

His lips thinned. “Miss... Dr. Havisham. There’s no need to thank me for your belongings.”

She had been about to thank him, regardless of the fact that it had taken an ultimatum to get him to oblige. But his tone was so...so...dismissive that she choked on the words, her spine stiffening to a rod of iron.

“A private word,” she rushed on.

She watched as one of his brows rose. Yet again, she was struck by the man’s unusual eyes. They were a mixture of brown and blue and green. But there was more to them than that. They were keen and probing. At the same time, they offered no clue to his own thoughts or emotions.

He heaved a sigh.

“Dr. Havisham, can this wait? Perhaps tonight I could find a few minutes to speak with you.”

“No!” she burst in without thinking. It wasn’t as if she were asking for an audience with the king. She just needed a few moments to talk to him about...

Oh, my, she’d forgotten why she’d been so determined to corner him in the first place!

Her gaze bounced from Creakle to the wide-eyed teenager to the droopy-jowled office worker to the door. And the dark shape that waited there.

The Pinkertons.

“No, Mr. Ramsey. It can’t wait. And if you can’t spare me a private word, then I’d be more than happy to air our grievances in front of you and your men.”

Ramsey sighed, straightening from the doorway. For a moment, she saw the way his features were lined with weariness, and she was reminded of the fact that he couldn’t have had more than a few hours’ sleep. That, combined with the strenuous work of freeing the passengers and the back injury he’d refused to discuss, caused a prickling of guilt. Even worse, she realized that her impetuousness may have led to her confronting the man when he would be least likely to heed her concerns.

But before she could speak, Jonah reached toward a hall tree laden with coats, hats and scarves. Snagging a battered black hat that she remembered him wearing the night before and a shearling jacket, he gestured toward the door.

“Very well, Dr. Havisham. I was just on my way to the cook shack to grab a bite to eat. If you’d care to join me, we can both have our breakfast and I can give you about fifteen minutes of my morning.”

She doubted she would be able to press her case in such a short amount of time, let alone finish a meal. But the rigid set of his shoulders warned her that it would be futile to bargain with him on this point.

“Very well. Good day to you, gentlemen. Mr. Creakle.”

“Ma’am,” Creakle said with a wide grin.

The other two men dived toward the door to open it for her.

* * *

As they stepped from the office, Jonah clenched his jaw to keep from saying something to his employees. They’d nearly tripped over themselves to assist Dr. Havisham, and now the two of them had wedged themselves in the doorway as if they intended to follow Sumner and him to the cook shack.

Jonah shot them a glance. They began squabbling with one another as they untangled themselves, stepped back into the office and slammed the door.

Jamming his hat more firmly on his head, Jonah strode toward the cook shack, but after only a few steps, he realized that he was making the trip alone. Glancing behind him, he found Dr. Havisham with her hands on her hips, her feet planted firmly on the boardwalk.

Maybe Jonah had been too hasty in his original insistence that the women didn’t need their baggage. His gaze skipped over her form, taking in the saucy hat she’d pinned to the top of her head, and the tailored greatcoat that clung to her frame. He had to admit that, this morning, Sumner Havisham looked much more appropriate, more professional, than she had in the too-short dress the night before. In fact, if he were honest, he’d have to say that the fur collar framed the slender line of her throat in a way that was quite...fetching.

At least, it would be fetching if her chin hadn’t returned to that obstinate angle again.

Her brown eyes flashed, darting from Jonah to the Pinkerton who trailed her.

She speared the man with a withering glance. “Go away.”

When the guard didn’t budge, Jonah could feel the frustration sizzling through her slender frame. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she stamped her foot beneath the hems of her skirts.

“Send him away,” she said to Jonah.

Realizing that he’d probably pushed Sumner’s patience about as far as he dared, Jonah nodded in the man’s direction. Immediately, the Pinkerton returned to the Miners’ Hall.

Sumner opened her mouth, but before she could begin her diatribe, Jonah held up a hand.

“Please. Not until I’ve had some coffee and something hot to eat.”

She offered a curt nod and fell into step beside him.

They walked a few feet in silence before she asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”

He shot her a quick glance, but there didn’t seem to be anything behind her question other than polite conversation.

“I’m doing well, Dr. Havisham.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You don’t appear to be moving as gingerly. Are you sure that you don’t want me to look at your back?”

“No!” After he realized that his interruption had been rather forceful, he adopted a lightness to his tone that he didn’t really feel, and offered, “I’m fine.” He opened the door to the cook shack and gestured for her to precede him, then murmured, “Coffee first, Dr. Havisham. Please.”

To her credit, she heeded his none-too-subtle reminder. After one more narrow-eyed glance, she swept into the building.

Jonah wasn’t sure if she’d decided to bite her tongue or if she’d guessed at the headache that pounded at his temples like a blacksmith on an anvil. Even worse, the heavy scents of black coffee, scorched beans and overcooked eggs hung thick in the room, causing even his stomach to clench. But to her credit, Sumner remained silent as he led her through the building with its rows of tables and benches toward the serving area at the back.

Too late, Jonah realized that if the two of them wanted a private word, this was the last place he should have brought her. Men who’d finished the night shift were still lingering over breakfast. As they moved through the room, a hush washed over them like a wave and all eyes turned in their direction—causing even Jonah’s hair to prickle at the scrutiny.

When they reached the warmth of the counter that separated the kitchens from the dining area, Jonah leaned in and called out to Stumpy, a miner who’d been drafted into running the cook shack after a runaway ore car had crushed his foot, forcing an amputation of his toes. The man had never really forgiven Jonah for switching him from mine duties to the cook shack. But the injury had left him with a lurching limp that was dangerous for mine work, and moving him to the cook shack had been the only way to save Stumpy’s paycheck at the time.

“Have the owners been in this morning?” Jonah asked.

“Been and gone,” Stumpy groused.

“Bring some coffee and a couple of plates to the private room. Dr. Havisham and I have a few things to discuss.”

Stumpy offered a low grumble that could have been an agreement or a complaint. Jonah didn’t wait for the man to make up his mind.

“This way, Dr. Havisham.”

He pointed down a narrow hall to a single door. Sweeping it open, he gestured for Sumner to precede him.

As she gingerly made her way past, Jonah was forced to look at the room with new eyes. A single window on the opposite wall offered far too much light to conceal the cubicle’s flaws. Although it was the only place in the cook shack that offered a place to eat with a real dining room table and chairs, there was no disguising the fact that the floor hadn’t been swept in some time—and who knew when the surfaces had been cleaned. Dirty glasses were stacked in teetering towers, the owners’ breakfast dishes scattered the scarred surface and maps and schematic drawings had long since taken the place of any linens.

Unaccountably, Jonah felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment, even though the cleanliness of the room didn’t fall beneath his purview.

“Here, let me...”

He pushed everything to one side, then used his hat to brush the crumbs and dust aside.

Dr. Havisham gingerly took her place just as Stumpy burst through the door carrying a wide tray with two plates, a pair of tin mugs and an enameled pot of coffee. He shoved the tray into Jonah’s arms, then limped from the room again without a word.

To her credit, Sumner offered a soft sound that was very close to a giggle. Then she reached up to take the tray.

“Here. Let me help.”

Before Jonah could respond, she’d begun setting the food and utensils on the table like a practiced dealer at a poker game. By the time he’d taken his seat opposite, she’d placed all of the silverware in their proper places and poured both of them a cup of hot coffee.

“Milk? Sugar?”

He shook his head, then watched as she added both to her cup so that the liquid was a caramel brown next to his own cup’s tar black.

Jonah took a quick swig of the liquid, then grimaced when it hit his tongue and the back of his throat like a brand.

“Shall I say grace this time?” Sumner asked, her eyes twinkling when she discerned his pain.

He nodded, slamming his eyes shut against the way they watered.

“Dear Lord above...we thank Thee for all of the many blessings which Thou has bestowed on us this day,” she began. “We thank Thee for Thy protection and deliverance and for our safe haven here in Bachelor Bottoms...”

Jonah couldn’t help cracking one eye open, but Sumner’s expression was one of rapt sincerity.

“We thank Thee for the men who have come to our aid. We thank Thee for the warmth of our shelter and the...sincere compassion and sincerity of our hosts.”

Again, he shot her a quick glance under his lashes.

“We pray, O Lord, that Thou will continue to bless us all with kindness and understanding. That Thou will help us to exist together in this valley as friends rather than adversaries. We pray that Thou will bless us with the means to help one another until Thou sees fit to free us from this...unfortunate situation.”

Jonah had both eyes open now, and was ready to offer his own two cents’ worth—as well as a hearty amen—but Sumner quickly added, “And please bless Mr. Ramsey most of all, that he might feel of Thy love, guidance and compassion. For this and the food before us which Thou hast provided, we are grateful. Amen.”

She opened her eyes, and smiled at Jonah with a sweet blankness to her expression, and Jonah was reminded of one of his mother’s sayings.

Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, that one.

But he wasn’t fooled.

Sumner Havisham had given him as much time as she planned on doing. Coffee or no coffee, she was now ready to begin her verbal exchange.

Jonah mentally steeled himself for her arguments, aware that the good doctor planned to challenge his use of the Pinkertons. He’d known when he’d issued the orders that the women would eventually object. But the owners had insisted, and Jonah had agreed that such measures would keep interaction with the men at a minimum. Even so, there’d been a part of him that had regretted treating the women as little more than prisoners.

Knowing that it would be easier to counter Sumner’s arguments if he didn’t meet her eyes head-on, he began spearing chunks of fried potatoes onto his fork. Even so, he couldn’t miss the way that Dr. Havisham settled her napkin carefully over her lap, then stared down at her plate. He saw a flash of something that looked very much like horror.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” She lifted her fork, gingerly prodding her food. “Your meals are...hearty.”

“Mining is hard work.”

Dr. Havisham continued to stare at her plate with such ferocity that Jonah took another look himself. He was forced to admit that the food wouldn’t win any prizes. The portions were large, not pretty. Because Stumpy and his men were often needed in other areas of the Batchwell Bottoms enterprise, they’d taken to cooking all the food once a day, then serving things warmed up until the pots were empty. This often meant that the men were forced to eat leftovers until the food was completely gone. Then Stumpy and his crew would begin preparations all over again.

Unfortunately, Stumpy didn’t have a wide repertoire of menus, so after a time, the meals all started to look the same. This morning, overcooked beans had been slopped next to a mound of scorched eggs and a greasy pile of fried potatoes. The fare didn’t taste much better than it looked, but it was hot and filling and stuck to a man’s ribs during a hard day’s work.

“It must be difficult to feed all your men.”

“The shifts break things up so we don’t have to accommodate all of the miners at once. They’re given a hot meal at daybreak, another in the evening, then cold meats and biscuits in their buckets midway through the workday.”

She nodded, poking at the beans, which had begun to congeal into a lumpy brown pudding. Then she looked up, concern gleaming from the depths of her eyes. “We women will tax your winter stores of food, won’t we?”

Jonah considered offering her a blithe denial, but he knew she would see through his subterfuge. “We prepared for the men on hand until the end of April. Perhaps, we’ll have an early spring.”