by Lisa Bingham
The man stood back, offering a small salute.
Offering one last nod to his friend, Gideon slapped the reins on the horse’s rump and headed out into the mud and sunshine.
* * *
Lydia had barely reached the outskirts of town before she realized that she’d loaded her basket with far too many items. She still had quite a distance left to the Dovecote and her arms were already trembling. It wasn’t so much the foodstuffs that were making her muscles ache. It was the sugar sack that she’d packed with bullets. She should have known better than to bring them along.
Hearing the clop of hooves behind her, she moved to the grassy verge of the road. When the rider didn’t pass, she glanced over her shoulder, only to find a buggy pulling up alongside her. And who should be driving, but Gideon Gault.
“Can I give you a lift to the Dovecote?”
She debated the question for only a moment—and only because the bullets seemed to be burning a hole in her conscience. But the thought of carrying them all the way to the Dovecote when she’d been offered a ride...
“Thank you. I’d be beholden to you.”
“Hand me your basket.”
Again, she hesitated, but seeing no way to refuse without arousing suspicion, she used the last of her strength to hold it toward him.
The basket dipped slightly as it exchanged hands, and Gideon frowned.
“What on earth do you have in here?” he asked as he set it on the floor of the buggy.
“F-foodstuffs,” she answered vaguely, hoping he hadn’t heard the faint rattling sound coming from the sack.
He still appeared curious, but she gathered her skirts and pretended not to notice. Then, she offered her hand and he pulled her up onto the seat beside him. As soon as she was settled, she changed the subject.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take anything but your horse, Gideon.”
He clucked softly to the mare, urging the animal into a walk. “You’d be right about that. I can’t think of the last time I borrowed a buggy.”
One of her brows lifted. “I do believe you made an issue of taking a buggy over the muddy roads not so long ago.”
He had the grace to laugh. “So, I did. But it’s fortunate for you that I made the unusual request.”
“Oh?”
“If I’d been riding my horse, I couldn’t have offered both you and your basket a ride.” His eyes sparkled. “I might have chosen to take the basket.”
She huffed slightly, but it emerged in a sound that was more laugh than ire.
“What has you riding around town in a buggy, then?”
“I thought I’d check the riverbanks and see the extent of the flooding. It’s been warm today. A little too warm for my liking.”
The thought caused her to glance up at the mountain peaks. Although the foothills were nearly bare, plenty of snow still waited above.
“What would happen if this weather continues?”
Gideon squinted up at the peaks as well.
“We could be in trouble. The town is built on high ground, but not high enough to escape full-fledged flooding. Then, there’s the havoc it would cause in the mine. The water tables will be lifting and the drainage systems are already taxed to their limit.”
“Oh.”
They were nearly at the Dovecote now. Because of the mud and standing water, Gideon couldn’t get to the door without miring the wheels in the muck, so he stopped on the matted grass next to the boards that had been laid down to give the women a walkway.
“I’ll let you out here, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”
She waited until the buggy had come to a complete stop. Then, before Gideon could make any motions to come help her, she gathered her skirts and jumped to the ground. She was reaching for the basket when Gideon asked, “Would you like to come with me?”
“With you?” she echoed blankly.
“I’ll be riding along the river road, then maybe head to the canyon and test out the roads. If we start to mire in the mud, then I’ll know we can’t get a heavy wagon through. I wouldn’t mind some company, if you’re agreeable.”
A soft “Oh!” escaped unbidden from her lips. Gathering her wits about her, she managed to offer, “I—I’d like that. I’ll just...take the basket inside.”
She hefted the basket from the buggy, then made her way over the boards. Once at the Dovecote, she darted inside. After leaving the items on the table with a quick explanation to Iona, she hurried back outside again.
Gideon waited for her beside the buggy and helped her inside, then rounded to take his own place again.
“You’re sure you have time for this? I don’t want to interfere with your work preparing meals at the cook shack.”
Lydia didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d been banished from the cook shack kitchen long ago. Her role in serving the miners was purely organizational. She could brew a pot of coffee or make a sandwich, but those were the extents of her culinary prowess.
“It will be fine.”
“I promise to have you back within the hour.”
She bit her tongue before admitting that the other women were handling all of the details for the meal. For some reason, she couldn’t summon the courage to admit her inadequacies to Gideon. Instead, she offered a vague, “An hour won’t put a crimp in my schedule.”
“Good.” He gathered the reins and urged the horse forward with a “Walk on.”
* * *
Gideon couldn’t have told anyone why he’d invited Lydia to come along with him. He couldn’t have explained it himself. He only knew that, as soon as he’d seen her walking on the lane ahead of him, the tightness in his chest and the need to flee had eased.
Maybe, it was because he knew they would soon start sparring and his mind would be diverted from the problems in town.
Or maybe, just maybe, being with her felt...
Right.
He drove the buggy in a wide circle around the Dovecote until he could negotiate the turn to the river road. But he soon found that his concern over the swollen river became secondary to the woman beside him.
“Have any of the ladies contracted the measles?”
She shot him a quick look that he couldn’t decipher, then said, “No. We’ve avoided the disease so far.” One of her brows arched. “Perhaps because we’re always being kept at arm’s length from the rest of the camp inhabitants.”
He couldn’t help grinning. “See, there are advantages to being under guard.”
She offered a soft hmph, which delighted him no end. He had to admit he would miss his interactions with Lydia Tomlinson once the women left the valley. And that was something he never would have thought possible.
His gaze strayed to the river again. They had less than a foot of bank left in most areas—which didn’t bode well for the coming weeks. Yesterday, there had been nearly a yard. But even with the encroaching water, his mood didn’t dim.
“It’s rising fast, isn’t it?” Lydia said quietly.
“It is.”
“How much longer before the river reaches the top?”
“At this rate, only a few days.” He squinted up at a sky as blue as a robin’s egg. “What we need is a good old spring blizzard.”
“Surely not. Spring seems to be here whether we’re ready or not.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too sure. I’ve seen early thaws like this one disappear beneath a second bout of bitter weather.”
“I’m sure that’s another reason you have for getting us out of the valley as soon as possible.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. Although he didn’t mind sparring, he wasn’t in the mood to argue with Lydia. Not today.
“Truth be told, I’d much rather bring in some fresh supplies. Who knows how long we could
be stranded if the river washes out the roads?”
Her mouth made a becoming O. Then, she turned her attention to the river again. “I hadn’t noticed until now how close the road runs to the banks.”
“We could do without this particular lane, for a time. But if we lost the one in the canyon...”
She eyed him consideringly. “How long have you been here? In Aspen Valley.”
He knew the date well. He’d been home from the war less than a year before he’d had to leave Ohio. There had been too many triggers there. A veteran in uniform. Crowds. Noise.
“I joined the Pinkertons in the summer of sixty-six, and received this assignment in sixty-seven.”
“So, you’ve seen about everything the weather can throw at you?”
“Just about.” He shot her a side glance. “The avalanche was a first. We’ve had some slides before, but nothing like what happened in the pass. I’ve never seen so much snow come down at once. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that a charge had been set to trigger it.”
“And I suppose that you and Batchwell would lay the blame for that on us women as well?”
“Nah. As talented as you ladies might be, I don’t think any of you could be in two places at once.”
Lydia seemed slightly flustered by his teasing, but she finally smiled.
“Have you enjoyed living in the mountains?”
He nodded. “Very much. It’s...peaceful.”
Something about his intonation must have given himself away because she continued to watch him, her eyes so clear and blue they could have rivaled the sky. “And you found yourself in need of peace?”
Oddly, he felt the need to tell her things that he’d rarely shared with anyone else. But as soon as the urge hit him, he pushed it away.
“You might say that.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t take the hint to drop the subject. Instead, she asked softly, “Was it the war that made you so...restless?”
Tell her.
After all, what could it hurt. She’d be gone soon.
But even then, he hesitated. There was something...weak...in confessing his troubles. And it bothered him that she might think less of him. So, he offered her a noncommittal, “I suppose you could say that.”
“Did you see a lot of battle?”
For the first time, the mere mention of the war didn’t hit him like a punch in the stomach. “A bit. I was part of a cavalry unit.”
“Which accounts for your horsemanship.”
The offhand comment caused a warmth to flicker in his chest.
“I suppose. But toward the end of the war, I was captured by the Rebs.”
“How awful.”
“I spent the rest of the conflict in a prisoner camp in Georgia until Uncle Billy Sherman came to our rescue.”
Her eyes widened, and he knew that she’d pieced together the clues. To his infinite surprise, she didn’t shrink from him as so many people had done—as if the stink of Andersonville still clung to his skin. Instead, she reached out to touch his arm, squeezing softly.
Such pretty hands. So small. So delicate.
“No wonder you have the urge to ride like the wind now and again.”
The fact that she must have seen him charging out of town on more than one occasion made him wonder if her bedroom in the Dovecote overlooked the road out of town.
“I can understand those feelings.” Her tone dropped, becoming thoughtful. Rueful. “I’ve had them often enough myself—without the availability of a horse to give me a means of escape.”
“And what would you be escaping from, Lydia?”
He drew the buggy to a halt beneath a copse of wild plum trees that would soon erupt in blossoms.
Gideon expected her to offer a rejoinder that would either change the subject or lighten the mood. Instead, she stared up, up, up to the tips of the mountains.
“My life before going to live with my aunts was...unpredictable.”
When she didn’t continue, he prompted, “In what way?”
She shrugged as if the truth were of no consequence, but then her hands drifted into her lap and her fingers laced tightly together. For a moment, she stared down at the interlocking digits as if they held the secrets to the world. Inexplicably, he knew why she’d instinctively understood how his own memories could haunt him. The past wouldn’t let her go, either.
“My father enjoyed a...nomadic existence.”
Which, translated, meant that she’d had no stable home.
“That must have been difficult for you.”
“He was not...a good man.”
Again, the comment seemed to indicate that there was so much she wasn’t telling him. But before he could pry for more details, she pushed her shoulders back and tipped her chin. Then, she pretended to glance at the fob watch pinned to her bodice.
“Oh, my! Look at the time! I really should be getting back to the Dovecote.”
And in that instant, Lydia-the-suffragist returned.
Gideon knew that he could ignore the statement and delve deeper into the matters surrounding her past. But in those few moments of honest conversation, he’d felt the kinship of another soul haunted by past events. He wouldn’t violate that honesty.
Or he’d scare her away.
“I’d better get you back, then.”
She seemed to sag ever so slightly in relief. “Thank you, Gideon.”
Chapter Six
A few minutes later, Lydia stood in her room, watching through her window as Gideon drove the buggy along the road leading up through the foothills—presumably to check on the canyon.
What on earth had she been thinking when she’d alluded to her childhood? In that brief unguarded moment, she’d nearly made a horrible mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.
She’d taken great care over the years to erase the evidence of her early years. To Lydia, the moment that she’d been led into her aunts’ home had been a moment of rebirth, and since then, she’d refused to think of that grubby little urchin she’d once been. Those early years had held nothing but deprivation and pain and guilt. Nothing could come from dwelling on her childhood. Instead, she’d focused her sights on the future, determined to make something of herself.
But when Gideon had been so boldly honest with her...
She’d felt compelled to reciprocate.
Whirling away from the window, she strode to the mirror where she began repairing the windblown tresses that had escaped the careful curls, the strict plaits. She looked a sight. It was a wonder that Gideon had asked her to join him at all.
Her fingers abandoned the pins and she returned to the window again. Gideon must have ridden into the trees bordering the pass, because she couldn’t see him anymore.
You need to stay away from him. This infatuation has got to stop.
So why couldn’t she turn away? Why did she draw the chair close to the window and rest her folded arms on the sill?
If he ever knew about her father...
No!
Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment as she tried to block out the reaction he would surely have: astonishment, suspicion, then disgust. Not only for the things that Clinton Tomlinson had done, but for those Lydia had done as well.
She supposed, in her defense, she could insist that she’d been a child, that her father would have brooked no disobedience to his orders.
But that didn’t negate the fact that she’d known the difference between right and wrong. And as Clinton Tomlinson and his outlaw friends had become the scourge of the territories—robbing banks, rustling cattle, terrorizing farmers and businessmen—she’d been there with him.
And Gideon Gault, ex-cavalryman, veteran and Pinkerton must never find out.
Leaning her forehead against the glass, she closed her eyes.
Ple
ase, Lord. Please.
Her prayer faltered. She didn’t know what she was praying for. A successful protest? Gideon’s understanding? Her future goals? Somehow, in the last few days, everything had become muddled, seemingly at cross-purposes. Yes, the protest still lay in the forefront of her mind, but thoughts of Gideon seemed to be crowding into her brain as well, making her feel confused and unfocused and...
Filled with a strange anticipation for her next meeting with Gideon.
Her eyes squeezed closed again and, since she had no clearer idea of direction than she’d had moments before, she whispered, “Please, Lord. Show me the way.”
* * *
Gideon stared at the quarantine list in his hands, then glanced up at Charles Wanlass in disbelief, wondering how things could have changed so much in twenty-four hours.
“You’re sure this is correct?”
Charles leaned back in his chair and nodded.
The man looked thoroughly at home in the small inner office located a dozen yards from the main entrance of the mine where the two main tunnels split in opposite directions.
“One of the women sent it to me this morning before the shift change.”
“There’s got to be...sixty men on this list.”
“Sixty-three, to be exact.”
“How are you managing to get anything done?”
Charles shrugged. “We’re struggling. Production is down and some of the crews are incomplete.”
Which meant that Batchwell would soon be on the warpath. Nothing sent the man into a panic more than lost revenue.
“What are you doing about it?”
Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose and seemed to stare absentmindedly at a map of the mine pinned on the opposite wall. Gideon knew from experience that when Charles adopted that far-off expression, he was often pondering another blast.
“Do? What can I do? I don’t have the men to replace them and we’re already spread too thin to alter the shifts.”
Gideon had always thought that Charles would be a fine administrator. Like Jonah Ramsey, he had strong leadership skills and an ability to build a rapport with the men. But Charles had once stated that he loved the unpredictable nature of his job as blasting foreman. Gideon wondered if he’d change his mind now that he had a family.
