Accidental Sweetheart

by Lisa Bingham

  She knew by the way he stiffened in the saddle that he had figured out the gist of her argument.

  “No. We’ve had some problems—the tunnel collapse in December and the incident with Jenny Reichmann—”

  “Which had nothing to do with the rest of us at the Dovecote.”

  He inclined his head in agreement.

  “Overall, I’d say that the men have been mindful of the risks of their job and have done their best to avoid any dangers they’ve encountered.”

  “So, there is no hard evidence that the women have proven to be a distraction.”

  “I can assure you that the men are plenty distracted, Miss Tomlinson. But there’s been no sign of it in their work. Yet.”

  “On the other hand, there have been definite advantages to having us here, I believe. Take the food, for example...”

  Gideon drew his mount to a halt, forcing her to do the same.

  “I take it that you’re building up to a grand finale in this debate, Miss Tomlinson. Why don’t you cut to the chase?”

  She reached to pat the neck of the mare.

  “I meant nothing of the kind. I merely wanted to know—in your expert opinion—if you felt that men and women could coexist here at Bachelor Bottoms.”

  He sighed and squinted against the bright sunshine that radiated from the upper slopes of the mountains.

  “It doesn’t really matter what I think, Miss Tomlinson. I’m a hired man, like the rest of the miners. If you want to make headway with your argument, you’ll need to take it up with the owners.”

  “But I would like your views on the matter, Mr. Gault. If the Misters Batchwell and Bottoms were to come to you and ask the same question, what would you say?”

  He met her gaze so completely, so directly, that she nearly looked away.

  Nearly.

  “Honestly, Miss Tomlinson, I think that Aspen Valley would be better off with the women gone.”

  The words clutched at her heart like an unseen fist. She should have expected such sentiments coming from one of the Pinkertons tasked with guarding the mail-order brides, but she’d thought—no, she’d hoped—that Gideon Gault might look past those challenges to the ways the girls had helped the community. Even he must see that a measure of happiness had come to Bachelor Bottoms, and the women were responsible for helping to make that happen.

  “Now, how about we go check out that pass so you have an estimate for the rest of your stay?” Gideon said, urging his mount forward.

  And for a moment, the chill that seeped into her body had nothing to do with the wind gusting down from the snowy peaks.

  * * *

  Gideon knew without being told that he’d disappointed Lydia with his answer. Although she tried to keep a blank face, he saw the light fade from her crystal-blue eyes only to be replaced with something that looked very much like...hurt.

  As he led his mount up the slope, Gideon pushed that thought away. He was nothing to Lydia Tomlinson—so why would she care one way or the other? For the past few months, he’d been a thorn in her side, just as she’d been one in his.

  Nevertheless, he couldn’t seem to shake away the feeling that—in his haste to get things back to normal again—he’d inadvertently denigrated the good the women had done.

  His eyes automatically scanned the debris field left by the avalanche even as his mind worried over his conversation with Lydia. Despite what he’d said, he would be the first to admit that the ladies had improved Bachelor Bottoms—and he wasn’t merely referring to the change in their diet. The food they served at the cook shack—two hot meals and cold meats and cheeses for lunch—were above and beyond anything that Stumpy, the old mine chef, had ever prepared. During the past few cold winter months, the men had learned to treasure time spent over savory stews, rich breads and hearty soups. Gideon probably had a better idea than most the way that the women had carefully planned each repast to make the most out of the community’s dwindling supplies. They’d stretched the foodstuffs as far as possible, all without lessening the taste.

  There were other ways the ladies had contributed even more. They’d nursed many of the men through illness and injury, brought order and warmth to their surroundings. Even the daily devotionals had grown sweeter from the sounds of their voices and Lydia’s touch on the pump organ. Gideon had no doubts that Aspen Valley would become quite dismal again when they left.

  But they would have to leave.

  Those were the rules of the mine. No drinking, smoking, cussing or women.

  Perhaps Phineas Bottoms could be persuaded to take a second look at the requirements for employment, but Ezra Batchwell would never agree. Not in this lifetime or the next. The man was an ardent, confirmed bachelor—had been for as long as Gideon had known him. Gideon knew all about the rumors that the other miners whispered about the bearlike man who had helped to open up one of the most successful silver mines in the territories. That, as a young man, he’d been the victim of unrequited love—and after being refused, he’d vowed to live a life alone.

  Gideon was sure that the story was so much hogwash. Ezra Batchwell was a businessman, through and through. He’d set his course on lifting himself out of the coal mines of Aberdeen and making his fortunes. And he’d done that. But that feat would be the very reason why he wouldn’t change his methods. Why would he tinker with success?

  “Are things so very bad?”

  Gideon jerked from his thoughts to find that Lydia remained by his side. Even more unsettling, she’d been watching him carefully—probably in an effort to read his thoughts again.

  He forced himself to take in the slopes around him, the path of rocks and broken limbs. Up ahead, he could see the hulking shapes of the ruined railway cars poking through the drifts, looking like beached whales marooned from a sea of white. It wouldn’t be long before the carriages would be completely exposed. Once they were, a crew would salvage whatever the railroad might find useful. Then the twisted rails would be dragged out of the way so that the rail beds could be repaired, regraded, and lined with ties. Thankfully, the damage didn’t look nearly as bad as he and Jonah had supposed. Locomotives could probably start heading into the valley by summer.

  But the women...

  The women would be long gone by then.

  He urged his mount the last few bounding strides to the top of the hill so that Gideon could look down, down, into the canyon below. For the first time in months, he could see the glint of the river and the muddy beginnings of a trail. There were still a few spots where negotiating the hairpin turns would be treacherous. But if the weather continued to warm up the way it had...

  The brides could be carried out of the valley in a series of wagons by the end of the month.

  “Gideon?”

  He realized too late that she’d asked a question and still waited for an answer.

  “Are things bad?”

  He shook his head. “It’s melting a whole lot faster than any of us had anticipated.”

  Her cheeks seemed to pale.

  “How much longer do we have?”

  He took a pair of field glasses from his saddlebags and peered through the lenses.

  “If it doesn’t rain again? I’d say a week. Ten days at the most.”

  He thought he heard her gasp. But when he lowered the glasses, her face was expressionless.

  “That soon?”

  Again, he couldn’t tell from her tone if he’d offered Lydia good news or bad.

  Stuffing the field glasses back into place, he nodded. “You’d better tell the girls to start packing. As soon as we can get a rider through the pass to alert the railroad, and the trail looks steady enough for a team and wagon, we’ll start the evacuation.”

  The word evacuation seemed wrong, somehow. As if the ladies were being taken somewhere better. Safer. But even though he knew they had to go—for th
e miners’ sakes as well as their own—Gideon couldn’t help thinking that, given the chance, the men of Bachelor Bottoms would have done everything in their power to make them feel at home.

  * * *

  The sky was growing dark before Lydia had a chance to relay the information she’d gathered from her trip up the mountain. By the time she’d helped Mr. Smalls take care of her mare, checked in with the women preparing and serving the evening meal, then played the pump organ for the evening Devotional, her brain was a-swirl with the myriad tasks that still needed to be accomplished. Only then could she and the other mail-order brides announce their demands and begin a proper protest.

  Did they have enough time?

  As she hurried toward the Dovecote, she could see the glow in the windows caused by the myriad lamps. She’d probably missed dinner with the other girls, but she had no doubts that one of the women would have placed a plate of food in the oven for her. Hot tea, coffee or cocoa would be waiting on the stove.

  She stumbled, coming to a stop. Now that the sun had dipped below the mountains, the air was brisk, and her breath hung in front of her like a gossamer cloud. Overhead, the skies had become cloudy again and a light misting rain was swiftly turning to sleet.

  For a moment, Lydia peered at the Dovecote, seeing the building for what it was—an old equipment shed that had been converted into a haphazard dormitory. The outer boards were rough and peeling. The yard was a series of puddles and matted brown grass. Planks had been stretched over the worst of the mud to give the brides a walkway to a front door that looked like it belonged to a feed store more than a residence.

  But the Dovecote had become a home. Even from yards away, Lydia could hear female voices, snatches of singing, laughter.

  For a girl who’d never known the company of sisters—or young women at all, for that matter—the dormitory had proven to be an adventure. Lydia had learned so much about herself—how to have patience and understanding, to share the burdens and accomplishments of others. It was for that reason that she’d been persuaded to organize their current plan.

  Had they started too late? Would they be able to do enough to disrupt the routines of Bachelor Bottoms and its owners? Would Batchwell and Bottoms realize the extent of the sacrifices they demanded of their men? Could Lydia get them to see that denying their employees of their wives and sweethearts didn’t just lessen the man, it lessened the entire community?

  The door opened and Iona Skye, a regal widow in her sixties, poked her head out. “Is something the matter, Lydia?”

  “No! No, I’m coming.”

  Lydia hurried the last few yards, dodging into the warmth of the Dovecote.

  As she’d anticipated, she was immediately inundated with the rich scents of perfume, baking bread and a hint of cinnamon.

  Iona reached to help Lydia with her coat. “Let’s get you out of those wet things. You’ll catch your death.”

  “It started drizzling as I turned down the lane.”

  “Come here by the fire.”

  Before Lydia quite knew what had happened, she found herself ensconced in a comfortable chair, a quilt draped over her lap, and a steaming cup of tea cradled between her palms.

  “I’ll have your dinner ready in no time!” Marie called from the small kitchen area.

  “No rush. Really.”

  Lydia knew that her friends were trying to give her enough time to unwind from her busy day. Although they pretended to be involved with their own tasks, there was no disguising the way they hovered nearby. She saw no reason for prolonging their misery.

  “I have news, so gather round.”

  Immediately, the brides grabbed their chairs, upended crates, and even a few barrels—using the seating arrangements they’d managed to cobble together in the past few months.

  “As you probably all know by now, I rode with Gideon Gault up the mountainside to check the pass.”

  “And?” Stefania asked breathlessly.

  “It’s worse than we thought. The snow has been beaten down by the heat and the rain. According to Mr. Gault, we have only a week—maybe ten days—until he and his men will organize a wagon train to force us out of the valley.”

  “He said those very words? That we’d be forced out?”

  Lydia held up a hand. “No. He didn’t say that exactly.” She sighed. “But I did manage to ascertain his true feelings. He thinks that we should all leave as soon as possible.”

  “So, we can’t count on his becoming one of our allies,” Myra Claussen said mournfully. Her identical twin, Miriam, gripped her hand.

  “I don’t see how we can change his mind. He seemed very adamant.”

  “Which means we’re going to have to proceed very carefully. If Mr. Gault stumbles across our plans before we can get everything into place...” Iona murmured.

  “He will do his best to stop us,” Lydia confirmed.

  “What should we do?” Emmarissa Elliot asked from the opposite end of the room.

  Lydia thought for a moment, her finger unconsciously rubbing at the ache between her brows.

  “We’re going to have to step things up. In my opinion, we need at least a hundred men to join sides with us. Anything less won’t cause a pinch in the staffing of the mine.” Lydia pointed to Anna Kendrick. “Were you able to talk to Sumner?”

  “Yes, but only briefly. She said that Jonah’s getting restless and it’s only a matter of time before he ignores her insistence that he remain quarantined from the rest of the men.”

  Lydia turned to Millie Kauffman. “What about Charles Wanlass?”

  “Willow said that he’s behind us a hundred percent. He’s even willing to talk to his own crew once we’re ready.”

  “Good. What about Phineas Bottoms?” She turned to Iona and was surprised when the older woman blushed.

  “I have tried to develop a...rapport with the man at the cook shack.”

  “And...” Lydia prompted encouragingly.

  “Do I have to?” Iona whispered.

  “You know how important this is to us all.”

  Iona shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but nodded. “I’ll ask him to join me for lunch tomorrow.”

  “And...”

  “And I’ll arrange to dine with him...alone...in the private room in the cook shack.”

  “Do you think you can keep him occupied?”

  Lydia didn’t miss the way Iona’s hands trembled before she gripped them in her lap.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Excellent. That means the rest of us will need to strike the storehouse tonight.”

  She glanced up at the mantel clock, noting the hour. “Those of you who are willing and able, dress warmly, and we’ll meet down here at midnight. Agreed?”

  The women grinned and spoke together.

  “Agreed!”

  Chapter Three

  Darkness hung thick and black as Lydia and the women crept toward the storage house.

  So far, they hadn’t encountered any men—but the fact that they’d brought their number of “hostages” up to thirty-nine by the end of the night might have been partially responsible.

  Marie Rousseau stumbled over a crack in the boardwalk and Lydia grasped her elbow to keep her from falling. The Claussen twins, Myra and Miriam, giggled, then corrected the path of the pumpkin wagon they pulled behind them.

  “Shhh,” Iona whispered. “We can’t let anyone know we’re in town, let alone that we’re raiding the storehouse.”

  “I feel positively wicked,” Millie Kauffman whispered with apparent glee.

  “We’ve become outlaws,” Hannah added.

  “We can’t be outlaws. We haven’t done anything illegal,” Miriam insisted.

  “We’ve kidnapped nearly forty men,” Myra pointed out.

  “I don’t think it can be considered a crim
e if they’ve agreed to the situation.”

  “We’re about to burglarize the storehouse.”

  “Honestly, Myra. You sound like you want to be breaking the law.” Miriam’s exasperation was so apparent that Lydia could nearly hear the woman rolling her eyes. “Besides, we aren’t taking anything, we’re simply rearranging something.”

  “Shhh.” Lydia lifted her hand, her eyes roaming the shadows. There’d been a noise coming from the alley. A soft panting.

  A dog darted from the shadows, and she wilted in relief.

  “Let’s get this done as soon as possible and get back to the Dovecote.”

  Lydia took a key from her pocket and unlocked the heavy padlock that secured the door. Then, she allowed the women to slip inside while she watched the street.

  Once they had all safely entered, she closed the door again and reached for the lantern kept on a hook nearby. After lighting it with a friction match found in the iron holder, she adjusted the wick, then whispered, “Find the ammunition as soon as you can and load up your baskets and the wagon. We can’t stay here a moment longer than necessary.”

  They hurried down the aisles, using the hand-drawn map provided by Dr. Sumner Ramsey until they found the spot where crates of bullets had been stacked on shelves.

  Lydia held up the lamp, revealing boxes and boxes labeled by type and caliber.

  “Ach. So, so many,” Greta murmured in her heavy German accent.

  “Oh, dear,” Iona sighed. “I had no idea that the camp armed itself this heavily.”

  “There’s no way that we’re going to be able to haul all of these back to the Dovecote, not even with the wagon.”

  “We’ll take what we can, then come back tomorrow for more.”

  Greta was the first to grasp one of the crates, pry it open with a cleaver from the cook shack, and begin removing the ammunition from inside. She quickly loaded an empty feed sack and placed it in the wagon. Beside her, the rest of the ladies sprang into action, filling baskets and pillowcases—and whatever else they’d managed to find to transport their booty.

  Lydia hoped that such measures would prove unnecessary. She doubted that even Ezra Batchwell would resort to an armed confrontation in order to get the women to toe the line. But she didn’t want to take any chances. She’d anticipated that the disappearance of the weapons would capture someone’s attention, but she’d hoped that it would take them longer to realize that the bullets were gone. By that time, they would have hidden the ammunition so the men couldn’t change their minds.