Accidental Courtship

by Lisa Bingham

  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

  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.”

  So formal. So... British.

  She chafed her hands together, but he was betting it had more to do with nerves than the cold.

  When she didn’t speak, he peered behind her and said, “Actually, I think we’ve left night far behind us and we’re well on to morning.”

  She grimaced, but didn’t appear inclined to leave. “Be that as it may, what I have to say won’t wait.”

  He was beginning to understand why Batchwell and Bottoms had insisted on the “no women” clause. He sighed, holding the door wider. “Then you may as well come in.”

  Her lips thinned. Which was a shame.

  “I don’t think that would be...appropriate, Mr. Ramsey.”

  “Miss—”

  She scowled.

  “Dr. Havisham,” he corrected himself quickly. “I think we sailed past appropriate hours ago. And I, for one, don’t intend to stand in the cold waiting for a formal invitation. So you can either come in where it’s warm, or you can hold your peace until morning.”

  A crease appeared between her brows, but she didn’t move.

  “If it will make you feel better, Gus Creakle lives here, as well. He’s as good a chaperone as you’re going to get in these parts, especially in the wee hours. I promise. Neither he, nor I, will bite.”

  She finally offered a grudging, “Very well, then.”

  He held the door open, allowing her to step inside, then closed it before the winter air could taint the warmth of the kitchen.

  “Would you like a cup of cocoa?”

  Her brows lifted.

  “Creakle has a fondness for the stuff, and he’s left me half a pot.” He hooked a finger through a pair of tin mugs stacked on the open shelf above the dry sink.

  She shook her head, but when he poured a healthy measure into one of the cups, he saw the way she breathed deeply of its heady scent.

  “I insist, Dr. Havisham. A nice cup of cocoa will warm you up before you have to brave the cold again.”

  Miss Havisham hesitated, but finally took it, wrapping her hands tightly around the mug.

  Too late, Jonah realized that Dr. Havisham, for all her bravado, didn’t have a coat—and the dress she wore offered no real protection against the elements.

  “Have a seat over there near the stove.”

  He gestured to the worn, overstuffed chair that Creakle had ordered all the way from Boston nearly a half dozen years ago. It was old and scarred and had begun to conform to the shape of Creakle’s backside, but, other than Jonah’s rocker, it was the only comfortable chair in the house.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. I—
”

  “Miss... Dr. Havisham,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “I’ve been on my feet all day, and good manners forbid me from sitting until you do.”

  She looked instantly ashamed. “Oh, of course.”

  Dr. Havisham brushed by him in a wave of something that smelled like...orange blossoms? Then she sank into the chair in a flutter of skirts. Funny how he hadn’t noticed until now that her dress was a good six inches too short. And the bust was a little too large. Had she borrowed it to replace the wet and torn suit she’d worn while tending to the wounded? Although the simple brown garment was serviceable enough, especially with the overwhelming apron, it couldn’t have offered her much warmth.

  The thought made Jonah feel unaccountably...guilty.

  “Would you like a blanket to put around your shoulders?”

  She stiffened—as if the very idea was a mark of weakness, or worse, a sign that she’d strayed into the realms of impropriety.

  “No. Thank you.”

  He gestured to the food Creakle had left on the table. “Did Stumpy bring you a plate like I requested? Creakle’s left me more than I could eat.”

  “I’m fine. But you should have your dinner, Mr. Ramsey. You must be starving.”

  Her pronouncement was firm, but he saw the way her eyes skipped from him, to the plate, then back again. Ever so subtly, she moistened her lips.

  Which told Jonah that Stumpy, cantankerous man that he was, probably hadn’t roused out of his bed long enough to send her anything.

  “Please. I insist you have your dinner, Mr. Ramsey. We can talk while you eat.”

  Jonah didn’t bother to ask her again. Instead, he grabbed another plate from the cupboard, then two knives and forks. After dividing the generous portions in half, he handed her the food and a set of utensils.

  “Dig in,” he said curtly. “Or we don’t talk.”

  She opened her mouth—and he was sure she meant to argue—but she finally offered a soft, “Thank you.”

  Taking his own meal, Jonah settled into the rocker, wincing slightly.

  “Do you want to say grace, or shall I?” he asked.

  “Oh, I...uh—”

  Obviously, she thought he was a complete heathen because his suggestion startled her. So Jonah bowed his head, closed his eyes and offered, “For this and all we are about to receive, we are truly grateful. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  For the first time that night, Jonah was able to sink back into the rocking chair and allow the tension to flow from his tired muscles. But something about his expression must have alerted the doctor, because she eyed him with concern, and her close scrutiny had the power to set his teeth on edge. He’d seen that look often enough in the last ten years. It smacked of pity—and if there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was pity. But he managed to avoid her gaze by concentrating on tearing his biscuit in half and piling it with ham and cheese.

  “Were you injured today?” she asked gently.

  The woman was observant. He had to give her that at least.

  “No.”

  “You seem to be favoring your back. Have you pulled a muscle?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s merely an aggravation of an old wound.”

  She looked unconvinced.

  “Honest, Doc.”

  “Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”

  He shook his head.

  “Because I’d be happy to take a look at you if you’d like.”

  “No!” The protest burst from his lips with such vehemence that he quickly added, “I’m more than capable of applying liniment all on my own.”

  Her eyes grew dark, causing a curious twisting sensation in his chest, but he pushed the reaction aside. He’d been to enough doctors and quacks to last a lifetime—and he certainly wasn’t about to add a female surgeon to the mix.

  Even so, it was clear that Dr. Havisham was intent on gnawing the issue like a dog with a bone.

  “But even if this complaint is one you’ve experienced before, you may have truly injured yourself today.”

  He knew the last thing he needed was this woman pulling up his shirt to poke and prod at the scars on his back. Hadn’t he already seen what the sight did to the gentler sex?

  Becca hadn’t been able to stomach the sight, even when the wounds had healed to pinkish scars. Jonah would be hanged before he’d allow another woman to get close enough to see them ever again.

  “No. Thank you, Dr. Havisham,” he said with a firmness that bordered on rudeness. “Look, it’s late and I’m tired. Maybe you should tell me why you’re here.”

  She didn’t immediately speak. Instead, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. Brown, brown eyes.

  “You are a very stubborn man, Mr. Ramsey. I might be able to help you. My schooling included a course in the latest advances in surgery and—”

  He sighed. “I think we already went through your many qualifications during your interview with Batchwell and Bottoms.”

  “As you well know, I left that discussion without managing to impress upon either gentleman the full extent of my education.”

  He knew she was reliving each harsh word that had been uttered in the mining office. Although Phineas Bottoms had seen fit to listen in placid silence, Ezra Batchwell had not been so reticent. He’d accused Dr. Havisham of fraud, dismissed her competence and had even questioned her sanity. Then he’d vowed to ruin her if she didn’t leave the valley as soon as humanly possible.

  Although Jonah would have been the first to admit that the mine was no place for a woman, he thought that Batchwell had been a little harsh. As one of the fairer sex, she should have been offered a gentler dismissal.

  “Dr. Havisham, why are you here in Aspen Valley?” he asked, dodging her question with one of his own. “What on earth possessed you to sign up for employment at a silver mine?”

  She met his gaze with a directness he wasn’t accustomed to receiving from a woman.

  “Why should I confide in you, Mr. Ramsey? I asked you the same question mere hours ago and you refused to answer.”

  There was a note of challenge in those melodic tones, and old memories threatened to swamp him. He was transported to another life...the company of another woman. But all that was gone now. In the space of a heartbeat, the thunder of cannon and men’s screams, he’d been stripped of that future—as well as his ability to ever feel so deeply about another woman again.

  Jerking his gaze away, Ramsey offered, “Like most of the men here, I came in search of a new start. And you, Dr. Havisham?”

  She poked the edge of her biscuit with her fork. “I wanted to go where I could do some good.”

  “But why here? You admitted to the owners that most of your actual doctoring was at a women’s hospital.” When she didn’t explain, he added, “To put it bluntly, you’ve spent the last few years of your career as a baby doctor. Why would you come to the only community that would have no need of such services?”

  She made a show of cutting a piece of meat, and loading her fork. Then she slipped the food into her mouth and chewed with great thoroughness before saying, “There was nothing in the advertisement that stated women weren’t allowed to apply.”

  “I would have thought the ‘no women’ clause that this mine is well known for having would have been a huge clue.”

  “The miners are forbidden to have emotional entanglements. There was no mention of the support staff having a similar rule.”

  She was purposely taking the conversation in circles, and they’d been through all that with Batchwell and Bottoms, so Jonah decided to cut to the chase. “But why do you want to work here, Dr. Havisham?”

  She placed her plate on the table. She hadn’t eaten everything, but she’d come close.

  “You spoke of the men coming to Batchwell Bottoms to better themselves, Mr. Ramsey. Am I
to be excluded of the opportunity because of my sex?”

  “Come now, Miss Havisham. Why would you come to a mining community famous for its exclusion of women?”

  She finally met him in the eye. “I’ve spent my life knocking down fences, Mr. Ramsey. Perhaps I saw it as another fence.”

  Jonah could tell from the soft flash of her eyes and the thread of steel in her tone that she was telling him the truth—at least a part of it. From what little he knew of her already, he supposed that she’d been rebelling against the narrow confines of her gender since the moment that her father had seen fit to give her a boy’s name. Had the man held it against her that she hadn’t been born male? Or had he blamed her somehow for her mother’s demise?

  There was obviously more to her motives than a simple act of rebellion, but the tilt of her chin made it clear that she wouldn’t be telling him anytime soon, because she took a quick sip of her cocoa, then asked, “I came here tonight because I was wondering when you and your men would be returning to the wreckage.”

  His brows rose. “That was your emergency?”

  “Yes. When will you be going back?”

  “Near as I can tell...next spring.”

  “But you can’t! You and your men have to go back tomorrow!”

  Jonah took a deep swig of the cocoa, nearly burning his tongue. “Why’s that?”

  “We...the women...we need our things.”

  He offered a bark of laughter. “I’m afraid that some dresses and petticoats aren’t worth the lives of my men.”

  “It’s not just dresses and petticoats, Mr. Ramsey. The women were rescued wearing only the most basic of clothing. If we’re to be marooned here for days—possibly weeks—we’ll need those bags.”

  “Why? According to Batchwell, none of you will be allowed beyond the hall steps until such time as we can convey all of you to the nearest town.”

  Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the lamp. For all intents and purposes, Dr. Havisham had been told that—contract or no contract—at the first possible convenience, she’d be sent packing.