Which meant hungry miners.
Which meant trouble.
“And what about you, Miss Havisham? Did you take the time to eat?”
Her guilt was so obvious that he felt a tug of protectiveness. One that made him ashamed that he could be so easily swayed by a striking woman. No. Not striking. Inviting? How else would you describe a woman with such soft brown hair, brown eyes—even her dress was brown.
So why did the combination make him feel warm inside?
Jonah resolutely pushed that thought aside. He must be even more weary than he thought if he was entertaining such drivel. He’d long ago dedicated his career and his future to the Batchwell Bottoms mine. And he’d had no regret at signing an agreement to forego drinking, cussing or being in the company of women.
Which meant that it was time for him to focus on the job. And that meant summoning Dr. Havisham to the impending meeting with the mine’s owners.
Straightening in his saddle, he tried his best to look authoritative and imposing—even though his back felt as if it were on fire. Pushing aside the pain, Jonah pointed toward the mine offices. “If you’ll join me at that building there, the one at the end of the row, I’ll see to it that Stumpy brings you a plate.”
“I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to—”
He sighed, lifting a hand to stop her.
“You misunderstand, Miss Havisham. I wasn’t offering a social invitation.” He hesitated before saying, “You’ve been summoned to a meeting with the owners of the mine—your so-called employers. I’ve been told to ensure that you get there as soon as possible. They want to have a word with you before you retire.” He waited one second, two, sure that she would object. When she didn’t budge, he prompted, “If you wouldn’t mind.”
When she finally spoke, she all but pushed the words through her clenched jaw. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll fetch a wrap.”
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