by Lisa Bingham
As she finished her inspection of the rest of the building, she began to believe that her assumptions were true. Other than a few ether cones, some prepared splints and rolls of bandages, there wasn’t a whole lot for her to haul back to the Miners’ Hall. A large basket should do the trick.
Sumner wasn’t entirely surprised at the meager supplies. It was customary for most doctors to supply whatever equipment and medicines they might need. Her own trunks held as many tools and compounds as she could gather with the advance wages that were provided for her passage. Even so, she’d hoped against hope that she would arrive to find that the infirmary was well-stocked.
With her inventory complete, she hesitated at the door leading into the private quarters. A part of her bubbled with curiosity. But she also feared that knowing too much of “what might have been” would be tantamount to poking an open wound with a sharp stick. If everything had worked out as she’d hoped, she would have been ushered into these rooms the first day. As it was, she could be forced from Aspen Valley without ever having the chance to prove how well she could provide the miners with their medical needs.
The temptation proved to be too great and she swung the door wide to reveal a small room with a drop-leaf table and a pair of chairs, a dry sink, a box stove and a narrow tester bed. Judging by its size, the builder hadn’t thought that the mine doctor would have much of a personal life; therefore, he wouldn’t need much space.
But to Sumner, it looked like a palace. A place of her own. A clinic of her own.
Just as she’d feared, she felt a pang of regret, but swift on its heels came a rushing wave of determination. This place needed a doctor—so why shouldn’t it be her?
Locating an empty crate near the back door, she gathered up all of the supplies that she could find. She was able to fill it to the brim, but it proved to be too heavy for her to carry back to the hall herself. Despite its weight, the collection held a woeful lack of treatments for a community with more than two hundred people. She would have to ask one of the miners to come fetch it in the morning—or a Pinkerton. If they were going to shadow the women, they may as well prove useful.
She bolted from the doctor’s office, striding down the boardwalk in frustration. The entire situation was maddening. She’d become a doctor to help others, but even when it was obvious that her skills were needed, she was kept from doing her job.
So, what was she going to do about it?
Her stride grew calmer—especially when the hall came into sight and she realized that she would soon be imprisoned behind its walls once again. Unbidden, the words of Charles Wanlass’s sermon came to her mind.
True gratitude is shown by serving one’s fellow man.
A wave of frustration washed over her. She wanted to help this community. The fact that she was alive and healthy were two overwhelming reasons why she should be grateful to the men who lived here. She and the other women could have been killed in the avalanche. If not for the miners, there might have been a need for graves rather than an overwhelming need for freedom.
If she could just think of a way for the women to ingratiate themselves into the community, maybe then, the men wouldn’t be so scared of them.
As she neared the hall, a Pinkerton—Mr. Winslow—stepped from the shadows and opened the door for her.
“Good evening, Miss Havisham.”
“Mr. Winslow. Mr. Dobbs.”
The lock had barely snapped into place behind her when Sumner became aware of a most peculiar stench.
Willow hurried forward to take the lantern from Sumner’s hands.
“What on earth is that smell?”
Willow grimaced. “It’s our dinner.”
“What are they serving us?”
Willow shrugged, helping Sumner to slip out of her coat. “We aren’t quite sure. It was too burned to make out. There was plenty of corn bread, even if it was dry as a desert. Some of the women are beginning to grumble that the men of Bachelor Bottoms mean to starve us to death.”
Sumner’s stomach chose that moment to rumble, but peering at the serving plates laid out on the table, she shuddered. No wonder the men of Bachelor Bottoms were so ornery.
But then, what could one expect from a bunch of bachelors?
A slow smile lifted her lips and her spirits rose as all of the loose threads of thought suddenly coalesced into a single, stupendous idea. For a moment, she cast her eyes heavenward, offering a soft, “Thank You.”
Then she called for the women to gather near.
* * *
Jonah jerked awake to the noise of ferocious pounding and Creakle’s muttered “What the...”
Cracking one eye open, Jonah glanced at the clock nailed to the far wall of the shack that was part office, part infirmary for the men in the mine. Located halfway down the first tunnel, the structure provided some protection from the noise and the damp, and offered a quiet place to grab a few minutes of sleep.
Jonah scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to gather his wits. “What’s going on, Creakle?”
Creakle blinked at him from the desk in the corner. “Don’t rightly know. Y’ want me to check it out?”
Moaning, Jonah pushed himself upright, waving Creakle back into his seat.
“I’ll do it.”
With all the trouble they’d had with their newest tunnel, neither Creakle or Jonah had bothered to go home. Instead, Jonah had kicked off his boots and allowed himself an hour to rest while Creakle finished the schematics outlining a new system of beams and timbers that should help to shore up the weak spots in tunnel six. According to the clock, he’d been asleep for less than half that.
With all that racket, the mine itself had better be ablaze.
As soon as the thought was formed, he pushed it aside. Like many miners, he was a God-fearing man, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have his superstitious quirks—especially where the safety of his men was concerned. He’d lived through enough mining accidents not to tempt fate with his wayward thoughts.
Dropping his feet over the side of the cot, he searched for his boots, hauling them on even as more banging assaulted his ears. Shrugging into his coat, he whipped open the door.
Stumpy Miller stood with his arm upraised. Since the man hadn’t been paying attention, he came close to rapping Jonah on the chest. True to his name, the man was as short as he was stout. And with his fists balled up and his jaw clenched, he seemed even squatter. In the faint, early-morning light, his face was florid and he looked as if he were about to suffer a fit of apoplexy.
“The cook shack,” he panted. “Hurry!”
Without another word, Stumpy ran down the tunnel to the main entrance.
Jonah bellowed to Creakle. “Sound the alarm! There’s a problem at the cook shack!”
Several new inches of snow had fallen during the night, so Jonah’s boots slipped and slid as he raced out of the mine to the main road where the kitchens were located. As he rounded the corner, he searched for a telltale pinkish glow that might signal a fire or smoke roiling from the roof. But even though the windows glowed from within, the yellow puddles appeared to be the product of lamplight rather than an inferno.
The alarm bell was just beginning to toll as Jonah pounded onto the boardwalk and whipped open the door. But rather than smoke assaulting his nose, he was nearly overwhelmed by the scent of lye and carbolic. Though his eyes stung, his gaze swept the room, taking in Stumpy, who stood with his arms akimbo. Around him stood a group of women who had obviously been interrupted in various chores—dusting shelves, wiping down tables, scrubbing floors. Beyond them, in the kitchen, Jonah could see a second group of females preparing food—peeling potatoes, kneading bread and cracking eggs.
“See? See!” Stumpy exclaimed, jabbing an accused finger into the air.
Behind him, Jonah could hear the clamor of men as they rushed toward the stagi
ng point in front of the Miners’ Hall. But for the life of him, Jonah still couldn’t figure out why they’d been summoned.
“What’s the matter?”
“They’re the matter.” Stumpy’s arm gestured to the women. “They shouldn’t be here. They’re supposed to stay in the Miners’ Hall.”
For the first time, Jonah hesitated. True, the owners had demanded that the women stay in the building across the street. Sometimes, it felt to Jonah that Batchwell had enforced a quarantine of sorts—as if their femininity were as catching like measles. But after last night, Jonah had begun to realize that the ladies would not be so easily contained. Even a group of Pinkertons had proven to be less than successful in keeping them from traipsing through town to the Devotional.
Of course, their act of defiance had been partially Jonah’s fault. In spending so much time in the mine, he’d secretly hoped that the problem would work itself out and the women would come to the conclusion that they were better off secluded from the other inhabitants of Aspen Valley. Barring that, Jonah had hoped that, once he’d had a chance to think things over, he could come up with a more feasible way to compel the women to stay put. One that didn’t make him feel like a tyrant.
But in that moment, as he breathed deeply of the cold fresh air sweeping in from the open door, saw the gleam of polished wood and sparkling glass and became aware of the tantalizing scents of bacon and biscuits and bread pushing aside the strong stink of cleaner...
He couldn’t think of a single reason why the women shouldn’t remain where they were.
As if on cue, his stomach grumbled. And for the first time in months, he found himself actually looking forward to a meal. He wasn’t sure what had inspired the woman to commandeer the cook shack, but he was drawing a blank on why he should curtail their actions.
At that moment, Sumner Havisham swept from the back room. It was obvious from the color tinging her cheeks that she expected a battle because she immediately offered, “Mr. Ramsey...”
He was beginning to hate the way she said the formal title. For some reason, he wished she would draw him aside for a more intimate discussion so that she would call him by his first name again.
A part of him registered that she was beginning to voice her objections, but he was momentarily distracted by the snap of her dark eyes. She and the other women must have been working for some time because strands of hair had escaped the tight knot at her nape and the frizzled strands gave the soft appearance of a halo around her face.
Too late, Jonah became aware of a silent pause and realized that she must have asked him a question. But he was saved from having to admit his inattention when a group of men pressed through the door, all of them talking at once.
Sighing, Jonah placed a thumb and finger between his lips and offered a sharp, piercing whistle—the same sound that he’d once used to summon horses from the far pastures of his family’s farm.
The sudden silence was nearly as deafening as the outburst of noise had been. Jonah waited a moment before gesturing to Sumner.
“You were saying?”
Her shoulders straightened, making him keenly aware that she was wearing a shirtwaist that he hadn’t seen, one that was severe and tailored—and probably meant to hide her femininity. But a delicate strip of hand-tatted lace at her collar fluttered beneath her jaw, emphasizing the slim line of her neck.
“I was trying to explain that the women would like to show their gratitude to the men for coming to our rescue. We realize that our arrival has caused some...inconvenience. And we are keenly aware that our presence will strain your food stores, necessitating a hunting party. We felt that if we could help in the preparation of the meals, that would ease the burden and free up manpower to look for game to see us through the winter.”
Jonah knew that he should object—if only because that was what Ezra Batchwell would insist he do. But as his gaze swung around the dozen or so women who were easing closer to one another for moral support, and the scent of bacon grew heady and strong, Jonah found himself saying, “Your efforts are all appreciated. I’m sure that Stumpy and his crew would welcome your help so that they could organize several trips into the woods to look for deer and elk.”
He cut a glance to the man in question, and for a moment, Stumpy looked as if he was about to chew his mustache off in frustration. But then the intent of Jonah’s words pierced the cloud of his anger. Jonah knew the exact moment when the stout man realized that he and his men were being given permission to abandon the cook shack and spend the day outside, unencumbered, hunting for game. The chore was tantamount to a vacation for a man who’d been chained to a stove for the better part of two years.
“You’re sure about that?” the man grumped. “We don’t gotta do nothing but hunt?”
“I’m sure that the women can make do for the next week or so. I know I’d feel easier if we had some meat to stretch our supplies. And if we were able to send out a full party each day rather than one or two men...”
Stumpy’s chest swelled with renewed importance. “Yes...well... That would be a fine idea. A mighty fine idea.”
Jonah turned back to Sumner, expecting to see the light of victory in her eyes. Instead, the coffee-like depths warmed with amusement.
“Dr. Havisham, I’ll leave it to you to arrange matters with the women under your care. Explain to them that we serve two hot meals a day and supply cold meat and bread for the meal buckets. Stumpy, here, will give you all the particulars before he and his men leave.”
A ghost of a smile touched the corners of her lips.
“Thank you, Mr. Ramsey.”
Since he’d left his hat in the mine, Jonah touched a finger to his brow. “No. Thank you and your ladies.” Then he gestured for the men to move into the cold. “All of you need to get out of their way for now. Breakfast isn’t for another hour or more, so give the women some room to get things ready.”
Chapter Seven
Long before the cook shack opened its doors, a line began forming and soon wound around the block.
From his vantage point on the second floor of the mining offices, Jonah couldn’t blame them. An enticing aroma had begun to waft through Aspen Valley, announcing the menu long before word could spread about a change in staff.
Creakle sidled up beside him, then cackled softly under his breath. “Will you be headin’ to breakfast soon, boss?”
Normally, Jonah wasn’t in a hurry to eat. He tended to get a few hours of work under his belt until his hunger or the cold drove him to the cook shack for a quick meal and a hot cup of coffee.
But this morning...well, he was as eager as the other men to taste the source of the delicious smells. Unfortunately, there was still one minor detail that he should attend to first. He knew that news of the new female cooks would rush through the encampment like wildfire. From there, it was only a matter of time before the owners got wind of it. And since they were still fuming about the women showing up at the Devotional, they wouldn’t be too happy to see them mingling in the community, regardless of the wonderful smells.
“Creakle, would you be so kind to send a message to Mr. Batchwell and Mr. Bottoms inviting them to join me at the cook shack for a meeting. Tell them that I’ve got something important to discuss about the welfare of the men, but that I’d rather do it over our meal, if they’re agreeable. Tell them that I’m hoping to avoid any interruptions, so for them to come in the side door.”
A slow smile spread over Creakle’s features, growing so wide that Jonah could see the flash of a gold filling.
“Yes, sir! I’ll deliver them there myself.”
Jonah waited until he’d seen Creakle head for the pair of homes that perched high on the hill over the mine. Batchwell and Bottoms had been business partners for more than fifty years, but their personalities—and homes—couldn’t be more different. When construction crews had been tasked with build
ing the offices, warehouses and row houses, Phineas had hired a few of the men to make a small rock cottage similar to the one he’d lived in as a boy. Ezra, on the other hand...
Well, Ezra had brought in a bevy of craftsmen from back east, and had erected a huge imposing edifice designed by Ezra Batchwell himself. Some said he’d copied the building from a stately manor house in England, and Jonah was inclined to believe it. The structure was several stories high, built of limestone, and adorned with gargoyles and statuary. In Jonah’s opinion, the whole thing was a bit ostentatious, but Ezra swelled with pride anytime it was mentioned.
Pulling the watch from his pocket, Jonah watched as the second hand swept around its tiny dial once...twice...three times. Then he snapped it shut with a soft chime.
After gathering his coat and hat, he crossed to the cook shack. The front door had been flung wide and men were jostling for position as they gathered their utensils and tin trays and began working their way down the line. Avoiding the crowd, Jonah dodged down the alley to the side door and let himself in.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the corridor. When they did, he noticed a small group of women standing at the entrance to the kitchen. They spoke in low voices, gesturing to the men and the eating area beyond. When one of the ladies returned to the kitchen, Jonah had a straight view of Dr. Sumner Havisham.
Unaccountably, he found himself rooted to the floor. He’d seen Dr. Havisham—Sumner—in a variety of modes and poses. Militant, when she’d insisted on tending to the wounded at the train; defiant, when she’d railed against him for involving the Pinkertons; thoughtful, when she’d accompanied him to the medical office.
But today, he was encountering a different woman, one who was in disarray and slightly harried, who saw the problem of too many miners to feed and too little room to seat them. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair had come loose from the braid wound at her nape. There was a dusting of flour on her nose and what looked like icing smeared on her cheek. She’d rolled the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows and allowed herself to unbutton one tiny fastener at her throat.