by Lisa Bingham
“To be quite honest, I’m not too concerned,” Charles continued. “We’ve had a record-breaking winter and we’ve got tons of ore stockpiled and ready for shipment. Right now, I’m thinking about what’s best for my men, and if that means we have a few slow weeks, the mine and the silver will still be there when we’re back to full force.”
Gideon had never heard anything so astonishing coming out of Charles’s mouth. The man actually seemed...content with a drop in productivity.
“Does Batchwell know?”
“Not yet.”
Again, Charles seemed unfazed with the fact that Ezra Batchwell would soon have to be informed that his beloved mine was struggling. Gideon didn’t even want to think about that conversation.
“When are you going to tell him?”
Charles’s grin was slow and all-knowing. “Not until Willow has a chance to feed him.”
At the mention of food, Gideon pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at the face. Nearly two. If he hurried, he could probably get a quick shave and haircut before he went to the Dovecote.
He snorted to himself, wondering why he felt the need to be so particular about his appearance. Then again, he couldn’t go to the Dovecote looking like a shaggy bear. He was only being polite by ensuring that the mail-order brides would feel more comfortable around him.
Yeah, sure. It’s the brides you’re concerned about.
Shoving that thought aside, Gideon dropped the list onto the desk.
“I’ve got to go.”
Charles’s brows rose. “Oh? Where you headed?”
Gideon rued the heat that rose in his neck. “The women have invited me to come to the Dovecote for a meal.”
“Have they now?”
Charles’s tone was particularly bland, causing Gideon to bristle.
“They want to ask me some questions about their upcoming move.”
The explanation didn’t seem to alter the amusement glittering from his friend’s gray eyes. But Charles’s only response was, “Tell them ‘hello’ from me.”
Deciding that a hasty retreat was in order, Gideon turned on his heel and strode from the office, heading for the beckoning sunshine at the end of the tunnel. With each step, he vowed that this strange new preoccupation with Lydia Tomlinson had to stop.
But that didn’t keep him from heading straight for the barbershop.
* * *
Lydia paced the length of the Dovecote’s keeping room, checking one more time that everything was in place.
“The roast is in the warming oven,” Iona said, not for the first time. “Everything else is already on the table or the cooktop. You don’t have to fix anything.”
“What about the coffee?”
“It’s made and being kept warm in the pots on the range.”
Iona patiently continued to coach Lydia even as the older woman tied her bonnet strings under her chin.
“Relax. The man won’t be here for another quarter hour.”
Lydia pressed a hand against her waist in an attempt to still the stampede of butterflies that swirled in her stomach.
“Someone else should do this. He’ll see right through me.”
Iona reached to pat her arm. “We’ve been through this already. You’ve had the most interaction with Gideon Gault over the past few months, so you need to be the person to entertain him.”
“But that’s the problem. I don’t know how to...entertain anyone, least of all a man.”
Lydia didn’t miss the amused twitch of her friend’s lips.
“Then I’d say it’s past time you learned.”
Lydia scowled. Clearly, she’d get no help from this quarter.
Iona must have realized that her panic was real because she cupped Lydia’s shoulders until Lydia met her gaze head-on.
“You and Gideon Gault will be sharing a meal, nothing more, nothing less. You’ll talk, you’ll eat, you’ll ply him with food.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know how to sustain such...pleasantries. Not with him. With anyone else, I could sit and chat all day. But with Mr. Gault—” She grimaced. “We invariably slip into an argument.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a spirited discussion. My dearly departed Henry and I used to indulge in a few quick-witted debates. Just keep the topics as benign as possible.”
“Such as?”
“The weather. The daily workings of the mine...” Even Iona seemed to scramble for ideas. “Literature. Art.”
“Art? You expect me to converse a half hour or more with Mr. Gault about art? I don’t know anything about art—and the man is bound to think that I’ve lost my senses. What did you and Mr. Bottoms talk about?”
Iona’s cheeks grew pink. She and Phineas Bottoms had clearly developed a rapport because they were now meeting several times a day.
“Plants, for the most part.”
“Plants?”
Iona needlessly fiddled with her sleeves. “Yes. I discovered he’s an avid gardener. He’s been thinking of cultivating a wide array of local wildflowers and shrubbery in the plots surrounding his cottage.”
Lydia couldn’t prevent a small smile. “So, the two of you are getting along?”
“Oh, well... I...” Iona finally met Lydia’s gaze. “Yes. I do believe we are.”
“Did you have a chance to ask how he felt about the women’s efforts or mention our cause?”
Iona shook her head. “The time never seemed right. But we’ve arranged to meet in the private dining room for breakfast tomorrow. Phineas is going to bring the schematics for his garden.”
“Marvelous.”
As the word left her mouth, Lydia discovered that she was more pleased by the way Iona’s voice softened when she spoke of Phineas than with the opportunity to further their agenda. Lydia knew that her friend dreaded the moment she would have to leave the valley. She’d originally been on her way to live with her sister’s family in California. Although Iona looked forward to seeing her sister Clarice, she dreaded becoming a burden on Clarice’s large family and her demanding husband. Like so many of the other girls, Iona had begun to regard Bachelor Bottoms as home. She’d found a purpose here. If the rules were changed, she would like to stay.
“Well, I don’t suppose I can spend the afternoon talking about gardening with Mr. Gault.”
Iona’s serious expression cracked and she laughed. “I think you’re right. If all else fails, ask the man about himself. In my experience, most men love to talk about themselves—especially in regards to their jobs. You might be able to garner some information that we can use.” She squeezed Lydia’s hands. “Regardless, help him relax so he’ll be off guard.”
Off guard. According to the report Lydia had received from Hannah a few minutes ago, Gideon had been snooping around the “quarantine” areas again. It was only a matter of time before he uncovered their ruse. The threat he posed had to be removed, and the only way to do that would be to drug him, restrain him, then keep him out of the way for the next day or two.
The butterflies in her stomach became a stampede of buffalo. Although she’d been fine throughout the planning stages of this latest escapade, she was discovering that putting those plans into action wasn’t quite so simple.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered. “It’s one thing to keep the man busy for an hour or so, but I’ve got to get him to drink the sleeping draughts as well.”
Iona patted her on the arm. “Come, now. You’ve never shrunk from a difficult task before. You’ve always been one to take your challenges head-on.”
Yes, but this was Gideon Gault they were talking about. And the man had the ability to knock her equilibrium on its ear.
“There’s nothing to it. You’ll feed him a good meal and get as much information from him as you can. Then, when you feel the time is right, you’l
l offer him some hot coffee. The sleeping powder has been dissolved into the smaller pot, so make sure that you get him to drink some.”
Lydia nodded. None of them had been confident that they could kidnap Mr. Gault through force, so they’d decided that putting him to sleep would be the best alternative.
If Lydia had been given her druthers, she would give the man the brew as soon as he walked through the door. But the other women had been insistent that she ply him for as much information as she could. Therefore, they’d made two pots. One with the sleeping powders and the other without.
She stomped back to the kitchen alcove to peek inside the oven—not that she had the slightest clue what she was meant to see, or what she would do if something was amiss. Thankfully, the aromas that swirled in the escaping steam assured her that nothing was burning.
Yet.
Her hand pressed over her stomach again, and she forced herself to breathe as deeply as she could. Unfortunately, vanity had played a part in her ablutions and she’d tightened her corset to the point where she could barely breathe.
“He’s going to be suspicious as soon as he sees that everyone is gone,” Lydia grumbled one last time. To her dismay, the other girls had insisted that an intimate meal for two would encourage Gideon to speak more freely. Lydia had tried her best to sink that idea, but the women had overruled her.
“Nonsense. You’ll tell him that the women were making advance preparations in the cook shack and must have been delayed.”
“But the table is set for two.”
Iona took her by the shoulders.
“Be charming. If you’re charming, he will assume that all the fuss being made is of a personal nature.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lydia muttered.
“You may have vowed to live your life free of romantic entanglements, but that doesn’t mean you have to completely ignore the male species. Who knows? You might even change your mind.”
Lydia shot her friend a pithy look. “I doubt that will happen. Even if I should decide to abandon my spinsterhood, it wouldn’t be for the likes of Gideon Gault.”
Iona’s eyes seemed to twinkle. And as she released Lydia to walk to the door, Lydia thought she heard her friend offer a blithe “We’ll see. Things may surprise you. You may even find the afternoon enjoyable.”
“Enjoyable,” Lydia grumbled under her breath as Iona slipped outside and hurried away. “I’ll be content if I can make it through the hour without throttling the man.”
In the past, Gideon had proven to be too quick-witted for her to maintain her composure around him. If she began asking personal questions of him, it was only a matter of time before he decided to do the same.
No, no, no!
The last thing she needed was Gideon Gault getting a whiff of her past.
Her stomach seesawed and the stampede of nerves intensified even more.
“Do not let him bait you with personal questions,” she whispered to herself. “You must remain calm, cool and completely collected. Keep the focus on him, only him.”
Because if he started poking into her own background...
She was in big trouble.
* * *
Nerves skittered through his system as Gideon strode toward the Dovecote. Even as his gaze swept the yard, took in the water levels encroaching toward the dormitory and the makeshift boardwalk that led to the front door, inwardly, his nerves were jangling.
Knowing that he would be eating with a passel of women, he’d taken more pains with his appearance than usual. At the barbershop, Stan Fuller had shaved Gideon’s jaw, trimmed his hair, and slicked the strands back with pomade. Telling himself that his Pinkerton uniform had been dusty and splattered with mud, Gideon had changed into a clean pair of wool trousers, a crisp linen shirt, string tie, a patterned vest and a black wool suitcoat—an ensemble usually saved for holidays and funerals. All the while, he’d wondered why he’d gone to such efforts. It wasn’t as if he were trying to impress the women. The ladies in the Dovecote had made it clear that, as the head of the Pinkertons who’d been tasked with guarding them, they didn’t like him much. Nevertheless...
He hadn’t wanted to show up for Lydia’s invitation looking like a grizzled fur trapper who’d been holed up in a cave for the winter.
Mindful of the boots he’d polished before leaving, Gideon took great care traversing the boards which formed a makeshift walkway. Then, once at the door, he slid his watch from his vest pocket.
Three on the nose.
He cleared his throat and wiped his hands on his trousers. If Gideon hadn’t known any better, he would have thought he was courting. His heart was knocking against his ribs, and his pulse beat an uneven rhythm. Even his palms were sweating. For two cents, he’d be willing to turn on his heel and stride away again. It would be an easy enough matter to plead an emergency.
But when he imagined his next encounter with Lydia Tomlinson, he could envision her all-knowing look. He had no doubts that she would somehow divine the deceit.
How was it possible that one woman was able to get beneath his skin so completely?
Gideon quickly rapped on the door, afraid he’d talk himself out of the appointed meal if he didn’t.
Just as quickly, the door opened and there stood Lydia, all pretty and smart and ready to do battle. Except, contrary to what he’d expected, she didn’t immediately begin a verbal fencing match. Instead, her cheeks bloomed with a delicate pink that matched the print on her day dress and she stammered, “G-Gideon... I mean, Mr. Gault.”
She bit her lip and he waited for her to admit him, but she didn’t seem inclined to move.
“Have I come too early?”
Maybe his watch was fast or slow. Sometimes he forgot to wind it, and then he would have to go into the mine offices to check the official timepiece kept on the telegraph operator’s desk.
“No! You’re right on time.”
The pink in her cheeks deepened, but she stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with her hand.
“Come in, come in. May I take your coat?”
Too late, she seemed to realize that he hadn’t worn a coat.
“Your hat, I mean. May I take your hat?”
He handed it to her, then surreptitiously smoothed his hair with his palms when she turned to hang it on the hall tree.
“Something smells good,” he offered, hoping to prevent an awkward silence from settling around them.
“Elk roast, freshly baked biscuits, as well as some precious jams and pickles supplied by the other ladies.”
His gaze swept over the room.
“Where are the other ladies?”
Lydia’s eyes grew suddenly wide. “They...they had to...” She waved a hand in front of her in an incomprehensible gesture. “They’ll be here soon. Problems in the...in the cook shack.”
“Anything I need to know about?”
“No! Oh, no.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Merely checking the roasts...that the men will eat...in the cook shack. Later. And then, a few of the brides are helping with the quarantine.”
At that, his brow creased. “Yes, I encountered some of the overenthusiastic guards earlier today. Greta seemed especially fierce.”
Lydia offered a laugh. “She does take her job seriously. But I suppose that she’s eager to ensure the community’s well-being.” She moved to the table. “Sit, sit. I’ll bring the food over.”
Gideon noted the seat she’d indicated, then took in the fact that there were only two place settings. Inexplicably, his palms grew sweaty again.
She continued talking as she moved to the oven. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? If we have much more weather like this, the miners will be wanting picnics rather than meals at the cook shack. Ouch!”
He dragged his attention back to where Lydia was trying to wrestle a large pan out of the o
ven.
“Here, let me do that. It’s got to be heavy.”
He hurried to take a set of pot holders from her hands.
She resisted for a moment. “I’m perfectly capable of—”
“I know you’re capable, Lydia. I’d like to help.”
That remark seemed to knock the wind out of her sails.
“Thank you. I have a platter ready, so you can set the pan on top of the range, then I’ll transfer everything to the plate.”
Gideon did as she’d asked. Then, rather than returning to the table, he lingered by the stove.
“What about the biscuits?” he asked, referring to the pan that still sat in the oven.
She glanced at them, then shook her head. “I think they need another minute or two.”
In Gideon’s opinion, they were already golden brown, but he supposed she knew more than he did.
“Anything else that I can help you with?”
She looked up at him with those blue, blue eyes. And for a moment, he thought he saw something within them that he’d never seen before. An uncertainty, a...vulnerability.
He held that gaze for a beat, then another, and another. Her lips parted as if to ask something. Then, at the last moment, she turned away, seeming slightly embarrassed by that hint of honesty.
Gideon suddenly realized that he didn’t know Lydia nearly as well as he’d thought. Even a day earlier, had he been asked, he would have been confident that he’d pigeon-holed Lydia into the proper slot in his brain: opinionated, headstrong suffragist. But he was beginning to believe that he’d merely scratched the surface.
Had he been overconfident in his assessment of her? Could it be that the woman he’d wrangled with from time to time was only a veneer? If he were to poke and prod, what else would he discover? Deep down, there had to be a reason why she was so ardent in her pursuit of equality and emancipation.
What was she hiding?
Or more to the point...
What was she hiding from him?
As if sensing his regard, Lydia focused her attention on the roasting pan. She lifted the lid, allowing the fragrant, savory steam to waft into the air. Using two forks, she transferred the meat to the platter. Then she began ladling out chunks of carrots, onions and potatoes.
