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He hadn’t meant to imply that he would squire her to the offices himself.
As soon as the thought appeared, Jonah realized he was being churlish—and shortsighted. If Dr. Sumner Havisham were to march up the boardwalk without an escort...
Resisting a groan, he turned to Creakle, the only man brave enough to disobey Jonah’s orders to hotfoot it back to the row houses.
“Ya want me t’ take yer horse t’ the livery?”
It was the last thing Jonah wanted—because he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stand up, let alone walk.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
Creakle made a cackling noise. “I got no problem missin’ the fireworks that’re ’bout to go off in the office.”
“What do you mean?” Jonah handed the older man his reins.
“Yer forgettin’. They hired Dr. Havisham on the understanding that she was a he. She’s got a boy’s name, don’t she? So they’re probably thinkin’ she was up to some shenanigans in getting the job. Problem is...she’s got a five-year contract.”
“And?”
“And I don’t think she’s of a mind t’ give up an’ go home just cuz they tell her to.” He nodded in Dr. Havisham’s direction. “An’ she’s not likely to give in anytime soon. Not with a signed agreement. Don’t know whether they’ve thought of that. Seems to me, she prob’ly has the law on her side.”
Jonah winced at the thought. Then, knowing that there was no way around it, he swung his leg over the saddle and lowered himself to the ground. The pain that radiated through his body was enough to make him rethink the “no cussing” portion of his employment contract.
“Don’t s’pose there’s any way you could just go home an’ put yer feet up, is there?” Creakle asked once Jonah had managed to hold himself up under his own steam.
“No,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
Creakle grinned. “Then I’ll be leavin’ ye with my best wishes.” When the door to the hall opened and Dr. Havisham sailed out, Creakle added, “Yer gonna need it.”
* * *
Sumner didn’t need her ears to burn for her to know that Jonah Ramsey and the wizened Mr. Creakle had been talking about her. Their guilty looks were all the confirmation she required as she stepped outside.
“Evenin’ t’ ye, ma’am,” Creakle said—a vein of hidden mirth evident in his tone.
Before she could comment, he reined his mule in the opposite direction to the mine offices, pulling Mr. Ramsey’s horse behind him.
“Mr. Creakle won’t be joining us?” she murmured as the man disappeared.
“No. He’ll be needed at first light for the morning Devotional.”
“As will you,” she pointed out.
The man moved slowly, joining her on the boardwalk. In the lamplight that streamed from the hall windows, Sumner was able to see sharp lines of weariness bracketing his lips.
“True. But I’m used to an all-day shift, now and again.”
She wanted to point out that he’d had an all-day, all-night shift, but she feared that such a remark would allow a...personal note to enter into their conversation, and she supposed that wouldn’t be the wisest course of action.
“Shall we?” Jonah gestured to the office and she fell into step next to him.
She was surprised to find that, despite the rough-and-tumble surroundings, the boardwalk was wide and completely devoid of snow. The buildings—which had obviously been constructed with some haste—had been made to withstand the elements. On each building, a placard proclaimed the building’s purpose: Cook Shack, Barber Shop, Company Store. Bachelor Bottoms had the comforts of a real town, if in miniature.
However, the more she gazed around her, the more Sumner became aware of a lack of a feminine touch. There were no displays at the store, no curtains in the windows, no library, no schoolhouse—not that an all-male encampment would have children to educate. But it left an impression of starkness. Impermanence. As if the town knew that such austerity could not be tolerated for an extended amount of time.
“How long has the mine been here?” she asked.
“Seven years.”
She gaped at Mr. Ramsey. “Really? Everything looks so...new.”
Jonah nodded and she became aware of the way he moved with a gingerness that belied his powerful frame.
“The first five or six years...this was a tent city. Most of the buildings are less than a year old.”
“But how could you live here in the winter without some kind of shelter?” The air around her bit through her clothing and her breath hung in front of her face like a silver cloud. Why would anyone endure such conditions with only a tent for protection?
“I suppose a man can get used to anything if the job is right.”
She couldn’t prevent the way that her mouth gaped—and Mr. Ramsey must have taken exception to her disbelief because he said, “Most of the miners are immigrants from England, Scotland and Wales. There are some from Europe, and a few from the coal mines back east. All of them came here with empty pockets, hollow bellies or dreams for a better future. They can make twice at Batchwell Bottoms than they could at their old jobs. That’s a powerful incentive to any man.”
“And what was your incentive, Mr. Ramsey?”
He looked at her, meeting her gaze with an expression that was as fathomless as the shadows that surrounded them. In the light of the lanterns posted at intervals on the buildings they passed, she thought she saw a flash of pain, a loneliness. But just as quickly, the emotions were gone.
“That’s a conversation for another time.” His curt refusal set her firmly in her place. After all, she was a woman in a man’s world.
The unfairness of it all caused an old, familiar defensiveness to bubble up inside her.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm, then snatched it back again when he stared down at it.
“You don’t like me very much, do you, Mr. Ramsey?”
His gaze was impatient. “I haven’t formed an opinion one way or the other, Dr. Havisham. I haven’t had time.”
“But you don’t like the idea of a woman doctor in your town, do you?”
He considered his words before saying, “No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Haven’t I demonstrated that I’m more than qualified?” She waved a hand in the direction of the Miners’ Hall. “I’m highly trained and good at what I do. Shouldn’t that be the only factor in my employment?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because you’re a woman.”
“Obviously.”
“And as a woman, you’ll cause trouble.”
“Do you think me so lacking in self-control? Or is it your men who can’t keep themselves in line?”
He huffed, clearly unwilling to enter into her argument, but she refused to let him dodge it—a fact she made clear by refusing to budge until he answered her question.
“I don’t think you or my men are morally weak, Dr. Havisham. I’m merely being realistic. Men will be men, and women will be women.”
“Meaning what? That a woman must be, by definition, weak?”
“No. Meaning that a man and a woman cannot be together without certain...situations coming into play.”
She huffed softly.
“Then there’s the fact that, so far, your only doctoring has been on women. I’ve seen the correspondence you’ve had with the owners. All your experience was completed at a charity hospital in Bristol.”
“A fact that has little relevance.”
“It will have a great deal of relevance when the next injured miner refuses to let you treat him. And if that’s the case, what use are you to any of us?”
The words shivered in the cold, echoing into the darkness.
You’re just a girl.
“We shall see about that, Mr. Ramsey.”
He shook his head, pausing a few feet from the door of the office. “Look, you asked me what I thought, and I told you the truth. I’ve been at this mine from the moment the first stick of dynamite was lit and the first timbers were put into place. I know these men like I know my own family. There’s a reason why no women have been allowed on the premises, and those reasons aren’t going to change just because you managed to get a contract under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses!”
“It’s pretty obvious that you misled the owners, falsifying your credentials—”
“My credentials are in perfect order!”
“Then falsifying your name. Come on, Dr. Havisham. Admit it. Your Christian name couldn’t possibly be ‘Sumner.’”
Indignation bubbled up in her chest so strongly that Sumner couldn’t prevent the words from spilling free. “For your information, at my christening, I was named Sumner Edmund Havisham. S-u-m-n-e-r. My father wanted his first son to be named after his father. So when I arrived, and my mother died soon thereafter, he was too disheartened to bother changing his mind.”
The words reverberated in the darkness, revealing far more than she’d ever intended. But now that they were uttered, she couldn’t withdraw them.
“Dr. Havisham, I presume.”
The stern voice came from a spot behind her, and when she turned, Sumner found the grim countenance of Ezra Batchwell regarding her from the open door of the office. She recognized his balding pate and dark curly hair from an article called “Entrepreneurs of the American West” in the Christian Observer, the same periodical which had drawn her to this remote place.
“I believe this conversation would be more suited to the privacy of our offices rather than the street, don’t you?”
Just when she’d hoped to impress the men of Bachelor Bottoms with her strength and dignity, she’d been caught hollering in the dark like a fishwife.
She thought she saw Jonah Ramsey’s lips twitch in amusement—and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to stamp her foot in frustration. But that would never do. Not if she hoped to repair the damage she’d already done.
“After you, Miss Havisham,” Jonah drawled, sweeping a hand in front of him to indicate that she should enter first.
“Doctor,” she reminded him.
“Dr. Havisham,” he corrected himself.
But he wasn’t able to completely stifle his amusement at her plight.
Chapter Three (#u96fc91f3-9c9e-5524-996c-ccaa4bc03047)
It 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.”
