by Lisa Bingham
Silence floated around them before she said, “I would dearly love to be a wife and mother.” She paused before adding, “Someday. But...”
“But?”
She sighed, looking down at the pot that she still held in her hands.
“Not all of us are given that blessing. Some of us are destined to live alone.”
Somehow, he knew that the statement held unfathomable depths. Did that mean that she didn’t think that she would ever be given the opportunity? Or that it wasn’t something she would welcome.
“And your doctoring...would you give it up?”
Again, he was sure that he’d said the wrong thing because her eyes became stormy. “Will you give up your mining once you decide to marry, Mr. Ramsey?”
Knowing he had to diffuse what was obviously a tender subject to her, he offered her a quick smile. “Of course. At least here in Aspen Valley. No women are allowed, remember?”
Thankfully, her touchiness subsided and she returned his smile with a rueful grimace. “I suppose you’re right. I’d forgotten for a moment where I was.”
Once again, the room lapsed into silence, and for once, Jonah wished he were the kind of man who knew how to engage a woman in casual conversation. But he’d never been that good at small talk. Even Rebecca had despaired of his silences, thinking that when he grew quiet, she’d somehow displeased him.
But nothing could have been farther from the truth.
He’d loved Rebecca.
But his love hadn’t been enough.
Jerking his mind away from that train of thought, he settled his hat onto his head with great care, then said, “Will you be staying here at the cook shack much longer?”
She shook her head. “I need to see to the wounded at the hall.”
He nodded. “I’ve got my own work to get back to, as well.” He cleared his throat. “If it’s agreeable to you, I’ll drop by in a few hours and take you to see the storehouse.”
Silence.
But then she nodded, saying softly, “I think that would be very agreeable, Mr. Ramsey.” She glanced at the doorway, saw that they were still alone and said, “Jonah.”
How he loved the way she said his name!
* * *
“Your ankles are a bit more swollen than I’d like them to be, Jenny.” Sumner touched the woman’s hand. “I want you to rest today and keep your feet up. I’ve collected some broth from the cook shack, and I’d like you to have a cup every hour. We want to give your baby plenty of nourishment.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Jenny’s fingers fiddled with the fabric of her day gown, drawing even more attention to the swell of her stomach.
Sumner eyed the woman in concern. Although Jenny showed no signs of labor yet, the baby was bound to be quite large.
“Relax and enjoy your leisure. You have plenty of women to wait on you, and you’ll be busy with that baby soon enough.”
Jenny offered her a weak smile and closed her eyes.
Sumner crept from the room. She’d spent more than an hour with her patients, changing bandages, adjusting splints and simply taking the time to talk and listen to each person’s concerns. But with her early start at the cook shack, her energy was flagging.
She paused in front of a small hand mirror that someone had hung over a washbasin and pitcher. The moment she saw her reflection she groaned in embarrassment. Why hadn’t anyone told her that she looked such a sight? Had she really faced Batchwell and Bottoms with her face dusted with flour and a streak of icing across her cheek?
Knowing that Jonah could arrive at any moment, she quickly washed her face. Then she unpinned her hair, combed it, then arranged an elaborate coil of braids to the back of her head. Unfortunately, after checking her reflection one last time, she decided that the skirt and blouse she wore looked rumpled, so she dived into the depths of her trunk to choose another gown.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from one of the upper rooms that she shared with Iona, Lydia, Willow and the twins, Myra and Miriam Claussen. Not wishing to give Mr. Ramsey the wrong impression, she’d chosen a maroon woolen skirt and basque bodice—one that covered her from neck to wrists to floor.
“Very nice,” Lydia commented when Sumner appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Mr. Ramsey said he would be taking me to see the storehouse,” Sumner offered. She didn’t want the women to think she’d changed for Jonah. “Once he does, we can start making lists of possible menus.”
“The information will be helpful.” Lydia paused before adding, “You look very...professional.”
There was a note of humor to Lydia’s tone that made Sumner wonder if she’d gone too far. She’d taken great care to ensure that there was nothing about her toilette that could give the impression that she intended “to lead a man on” as Batchwell had accused the women of doing. Maybe she should have worn one of her work dresses instead.
Iona looked up from her needlepoint. “You look beautiful. The braid trim is very fetching.”
Drat.
She was going to have to change.
But before she could turn around, there was a knock on the main door and Marie Rousseau rushed to open it.
Even though Sumner could see little more than Jonah’s silhouette against the brightness, she knew the moment that he saw her. She felt the power of his gaze. She fought to remain calm.
No.
She’d never been a woman who was prone to fits of fancy—or even the giggling whispers that some ladies exchanged when a handsome man entered the room. She’d always been too practical and focused on her education and goals to give such nonsense any heed. But she suddenly felt as light-headed and twitter-pated as an ingenue at a ball.
And she hated balls.
What was happening to her? Was this a by-product of being told that she couldn’t officially practice medicine?
No. That couldn’t be the case. Even though she’d been forbidden to take care of the miners, she’d spent the past few days tending to those who had been injured in the avalanche.
So why couldn’t she put these odd feelings to rest?
Knowing that she’d stood rooted in place for far too long to appear casual, Sumner forced her limbs to move. But her knees continued to tremble far too tellingly.
As she approached the door, Jonah seemed to remember himself and scooped his hat from his head. The glare danced over the tousled waves of his hair, and Sumner wondered what he would do if she reached to smooth them into place.
“Is this a convenient time for you to check the storehouse, Dr. Havisham?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
A pile of coats and hats had been left on a narrow bench by the door, and Sumner quickly found her own. She pinned her bonnet to the braids on her head and tied the ribbon beneath her chin. But when she would have reached for her coat, Jonah took it first, holding it up for her.
The gesture was gentlemanly, but hardly personal. So why did she become so incredibly conscious of the brush of his fingers before he stepped away and gestured to the bright patch of sunshine?
“After you,” he murmured. Then he offered a nod to the other women. “Ladies. Have a good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon to you, too, Mr. Ramsey!” Lydia called out cheekily.
As they strode down the boardwalk, Sumner took deep gulps of the frosty air. Honestly, she couldn’t fathom what was wrong with her. Maybe the bump she’d received on the head during the accident had been more serious than she’d at first supposed. Already, the bruise around the gash was beginning to fade, turning from a mottled shade of black to a sickly yellow. She’d been so sure that she would escape the avalanche with nothing more than a tiny scar to show for it. But she was beginning to believe that maybe something had been jostled loose in her brain.
“You’ve had quite an effect on the men.”
“What?” She blinked at Jonah in confusion.
“You and the other women. I’ve heard nothing but praise for you and the food you cooked.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Early reports for today are saying that production in the mine is up slightly. I would wager that the good food has been a major contributor. That should help to support your position that the women are providing a real service.”
If only it would also bolster her argument about being allowed to serve as mine physician.
“Maybe now he’ll agree to get rid of our Pinkerton guards.”
Jonah grimaced. “Don’t count on it. I’ve been told that a pair of Pinkertons are supposed to stay at the cook shack whenever any of you are there.”
Sumner stopped in her tracks to gape at him. “You’ve got to be joking.”
He shook his head—and it was obvious that he regretted the fact that he’d said anything. “They’ve already been given their orders—and not by me. Batchwell went straight over my head and made the arrangements with Gideon Gault himself.”
An old familiar frustration began to twine in Sumner’s chest. “Honestly. If he’d bothered to watch any of them work, he would have seen that the women don’t have time to do anything but cook. And clean. Some of your men have forgotten their manners after being on their own for so long.”
To her surprise, Jonah didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded. “That, without a doubt, is a true statement. We’ve all been away from the...gentler influences of society.”
His admission had the uncanny effect of draining away her anger, leaving her...unnerved.
“So you admit that the lack of women in the community does have its costs?”
He paused a moment before saying, “Of course. Women have the ability to soften life’s rough edges, to encourage civility, to...make some of its tragedies more bearable.”
“So why do you all insist on such an antiquated rule?”
“Because—as glorious as those effects can be—none of them are worth a human life. Mining is dark, dirty and dangerous work. A man’s got to keep his wits about him every second he’s down there. Women are a distraction. You may not like that fact—you might not even want to admit that such a statement is true. But I’ve seen enough men die in my life that I’m determined not to let another one go. Not on my watch.”
His voice rang with such conviction that Sumner couldn’t bring herself to argue.
Whom had he seen die? How many?
Suddenly, his loyalty to Batchwell and Bottoms took on new meaning. It wasn’t just the job or the silver being wrestled from the ground that was important to Jonah Ramsey. He sincerely cared about his men.
And how could she mount a campaign against that?
Chapter Eight
Thankfully, Sumner was saved from any kind of response because Jonah stopped in front of a large square building.
“This is it.”
Glancing up the road, Sumner saw that they’d come a fair distance from the cook shack. In fact, they’d reached the far end of the row of structures that made up the main street of the mine. If she or the other women needed something, they wouldn’t be fetching it quickly.
Jonah took the familiar ring of keys from his vest pocket and began to unlatch the padlock. “Don’t worry. You can send one of the men to haul back what you need.” Then he suddenly grinned. “Send one of the Pinkertons, if you like.”
His smile was so real, so unexpected, that it hit her square in the chest and she couldn’t help laughing. “I’m sure that would go over well with Mr. Batchwell.”
The grin stayed firmly in place on Jonah’s face, crinkling at the corners of his eyes and causing them to sparkle in a way that was more blue than brown. “That hasn’t stopped you so far.”
She wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or a criticism. But as he tugged on a heavy door that seemed more appropriate for a livery stable than a storage facility, she was soon distracted.
Inside, the building was dim and cold. A lantern and a match safe hung from a rack nearby and Jonah quickly lit the wick, then adjusted the flame to give them as much light as possible. Then he held it high and led her into the cavernous depths.
Sumner soon surmised that the huge doors had an obvious function when she saw that crates had been stacked from floor to ceiling, interspersed now and again by narrow aisles. Neat tags had been tacked to each one of the boxes and a shaking script proclaimed the contents: nails, kerosene, sulfur, dynamite.
Dynamite?
“You store your foodstuffs alongside the explosives?”
The alarm she felt echoed into the dimness.
“Not exactly. You’ll want to avoid that area. Especially with an open flame.”
Sumner eyed the lantern in concern, but Jonah was already turning down another aisle. Here, the labels became more mundane—shovels, picks, hammers—then another slight jog where heavy sacks had been piled on wooden shelves—flour, sugar, salt—and even bigger sacks with rice, beans and oats. Farther on, there were barrels of molasses, crocks of pickles and smaller canisters of bicarbonate and yeast.
“We’ve tried to think of everything—corn meal, wheat, barley.” He pointed to another door. “In there, we’ve hung most of the fresh game as well as smoked and salted meats.” He turned a corner to reveal shelves filled with wooden barrels. “In these, you’ll find dried apples, cherries, raisins and apricots.” On the opposite side, he gestured to huge wooden bins. “Over there, we’ve got potatoes, turnips and what’s left of the squash and pumpkin.”
At long last, he stopped. “If you can’t find what you need, send for me or Creakle. He has his own filing system. You could also get Willoughby Smalls to help. He works in the livery. Since he helps Creakle store everything, he knows where to look.”
Sumner turned a slow circle. She’d never seen so much food gathered together in one place before. But then, she’d never had to consider feeding two hundred or more men through the winter, either.
“Do you have a written inventory somewhere so we know how much is available?”
Jonah nodded. “Creakle is a fanatic about his numbers. I’ll have him come meet with you later today.” His mouth opened, as if he’d been about to say something, then he closed it again.
Her mood threatened to plummet. Was there something he wasn’t telling her? Yet another dire edict passed down from the owners?
“Is there something else we should know?”
“No. I mean...it doesn’t concern the other women...but...” Again, he hesitated. “It’s just that Creakle won’t bring it up himself and...”
Sumner waited patiently, afraid that if she said something, Jonah wouldn’t confide in her.
“You might want to ask about his feet.”
Her brow creased.
“His feet?”
“His right foot—toe, actually. He rearranged the office a while back and he dropped a filing cabinet on his toe. He was looking forward to having a doctor take a look at it.”
A male doctor.
“But I know it’s paining him.”
The familiar frustration she felt at being compared to her male counterparts seeped away when she realized that Jonah was asking for her help.
“I’d be happy to examine him.”
“Perhaps I could have him meet you in the infirmary later today. If he’s in the proper setting, maybe he’ll agree to take off his boot.”
“I think that would be a grand idea.”
“Excellent.”
As the silence pulsed around them, it was clear that their business together was finished. But he appeared loath to move.
And she was glad.
So glad.
“Do you like your work, Sumner? Being a doctor, I mean.”
She nodded. “Very much.”
&
nbsp; “And your family...they must admire you.”
She could have offered a blithe answer or vague platitudes. But for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Not with Jonah.
Lacing her hands together, she avoided his gaze. “Not exactly. My...father did not approve.”
When she glanced up, she saw only an echo of her own sadness in Jonah’s eyes. “That must have been difficult for you.”
“You’ve no idea. He did everything in his power to try to dissuade me from pursuing my career. He threatened, cajoled...” She hesitated before trusting him with the worst of it. “He even locked me in my room at one point.”
Jonah’s eyes blazed. “For how long?”
“Six weeks,” she admitted hesitantly.
“His own daughter?”
She offered a dark laugh. “He was worried about appearances. ‘No daughter of mine will be seen acting like a man,’” Sumner said in her best impression of her father’s deep baritone. She grimaced. “He thought that by locking me away I’d ‘come to my senses.’”
“So what did you do?”
“I tried to escape, which didn’t work.”
“And then?”
Her chin tilted in remembered defiance.
“I refused to eat. Soon, it became apparent that I’d starve to death before I’d give up on my dreams. I guess he decided that the talk of my death would be worse than the talk of my disappearance. So he allowed me to go away—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—as long as I promised that I wouldn’t come back.”
“Oh, Sumner...”
Jonah’s voice held such tenderness that tears pricked at her eyes. But she refused to give in to them. She hadn’t cried about leaving her family in a very long time and she didn’t intend to start now.
“It’s not a Shakespearean tragedy. We both got what we wanted. I began my training in London, then later moved to Bristol to work, leaving him to focus all his time and energies on my half brothers.”
Because he loved them more.
He’d always loved them more.
Because they were male.
She didn’t know how it happened. One moment she was being pummeled by her inner demons. In the next, Jonah had set the lantern on a keg of dried apples, then drawn her to him, encircling her in the warmth and strength of his arms.