Accidental Sweetheart

by Lisa Bingham

  With that, he headed out the door. And this time, it was his turn to slam it behind him.

  * * *

  Lydia fought the urge to lay her head down on the table and cry.

  She never cried. Never.

  “Is the coast clear?”

  She looked up to find Willow Wanlass poking her head through the door that led into the rear apartment where Sumner Ramsey had once slept and held her medical offices.

  “Yes, he’s gone.” Lydia’s mood brightened ever so slightly. “Did you bring the twins with you?”

  “Yes. But I daren’t bring them any farther than the back door. Charles put wheels on their little sledge so that I could pull them around town, but I don’t want to track mud into the Dovecote.” She eyed Lydia with concern. “I take it from your expression that things didn’t go well with Gideon.”

  Lydia shook her head. “The man doesn’t drink coffee. In all this time, why didn’t I notice the man didn’t drink coffee?”

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought that Willow disguised a giggle behind an abrupt cough.

  “Fetch your bonnet and wrap and come with me. I’ve had an idea.”

  Lydia’s brows rose, but she moved to gather her things.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Willow held the door wide for her.

  “I think it’s time we stopped focusing our attention on the miners and the Pinkertons and bearded the lion in his own den.”

  “What lion?” Lydia asked morosely as she pinned her bonnet to her head.

  “The great man himself. Ezra Batchwell.”

  * * *

  The sky hung above them like a blue bowl with nary a cloud in sight as Lydia and Willow climbed the lane leading to the spot high above the miners’ row houses where Batchwell and Bottoms had constructed their own private residences.

  “I think, if I were asked which of these two houses I would prefer for myself, I would take Mr. Bottoms’s cottage,” Willow remarked as they passed the first of the buildings.

  Lydia had never been this close to either building so she paused to take them both in.

  According to what she’d been told, the previous summer, the owners of the mine had hired crews with the specific purpose of erecting their private residences. Not surprisingly, the men had drawn upon memories of their birthplaces in Scotland to inspire their designs.

  Phineas Bottoms’s cottage had been the first structure to be finished—and not surprisingly. His was a modest two-story dwelling with thick rock walls and a slate roof. If Lydia hadn’t known better, she might have thought that the house had been plucked from the wilds of the Highlands and had been transported magically to the Uinta Mountains.

  “Really? I would have thought that with your little family, you would want something bigger, like Mr. Batchwell’s mansion.”

  Willow shook her head. “Too many floors to scrub.”

  Lydia laughed and supposed that Willow had a point. While Phineas Bottoms’s house seemed quaint and compact, Batchwell’s had been constructed to impress. She could count three full stories—and if the upper garret windows were to be believed, there could be another partial floor above that. The walls were made of imported limestone blocks with stout, square columns, and heavy carved pediments over arched windows. It reminded Lydia of the stately manor houses described by some of her favorite British novelists—and she wouldn’t have been surprised to see Mr. Rochester or Mr. Darcy stride from the heavy doors to a waiting carriage in the circular drive.

  “Iona said that Mr. Bottoms intends to plant a cottage garden.”

  Willow’s features brightened at the prospect. “Won’t that be lovely? I must tell him I have some seeds I brought with me from England. I’d be more than happy to give him some.” Her features clouded. “Especially since Charles and I won’t know where we’ll be living for a while.”

  Lydia grasped her friend’s hand and squeezed. For the time being, Charles was being allowed to work in the mine as a temporary consultant. But everyone suspected that as soon as the women were forced to leave, Willow would be among them. Charles had insisted that he would get a new job if he and his family couldn’t live together. But since Jonah had circumvented the rules by living off company property on a piece of land he’d originally homesteaded, Charles was hoping to do the same. It was rumored that there were still parcels available to the north, but until Charles could make a trip to the land offices in Ogden, the Wanlasses’ plans were up in the air.

  As they passed Bottoms’s untidy, unfinished garden and moved closer to Batchwell’s property, she could see that his yard had already been planted with formal trees and shrubbery surrounded by an ornate cast iron fence. The entire effect seemed less grandiose in her opinion than sad. Mr. Batchwell seemed intent on closing himself off from Bachelor Bottoms. If he only knew how warm and welcoming the community could be.

  When Willow paused to unlatch the gate, Lydia stared up, up, up, her eyes widening slightly when she noted that intricately carved gargoyles had been placed at each of the four corners of the copper roof.

  “Those things give me the shivers,” Willow muttered, noting Lydia’s gaze. “According to Charles, they’re supposed to represent the four winds. In my opinion, they look like the horrible little beasties of the forest that my mother threatened me with whenever I grew naughty. I’m not usually superstitious, but you won’t catch me up here after dark.”

  Lydia laughed. “You have to admit the place is impressive.”

  She didn’t miss Willow’s instinctive shudder. “Wait. You haven’t seen the inside yet.”

  Lydia was surprised that Willow had been allowed this far up the hill without a Pinkerton guard, let alone inside Mr. Batchwell’s home. But then she supposed, as a married woman, Willow was given certain allowances.

  “Why on earth did you volunteer to feed the man?”

  Willow shrugged. “I wanted to help with the protest in some way, and as the lay pastor’s wife, it seemed like a logical way to foster a little goodwill with him. With the new tunnel opening up, manpower being strained to the limit—and a mysterious measles epidemic sweeping through town—Charles needs everyone in the mine that he can find.” Her eyes twinkled. “Besides, I was the only person who was willing to do it.”

  She pulled the cart to one of the side doors, then tugged on a chain. From deep inside, Lydia heard a bell ringing.

  “I thought he’d broken his leg,” Lydia whispered as the sounds of footfalls approached the door.

  “Oh, he did. But he has a personal servant who waits on him. A kind of butler and valet combined.”

  “And his servant can’t cook?”

  “Apparently not.” Willow kept her voice low as well. “Batchwell wouldn’t even let the man leave long enough to come down to the cook shack to retrieve his meals. From what I’ve heard, Mr. Batchwell runs the poor man ragged.”

  The door suddenly opened, revealing a tall, taciturn man with a hooked beak of a nose and a fringe of dark hair that circled around the back of his head.

  “Hello, Boris.”

  “Mrs. Wanlass.”

  He peered down, down, down his nose to regard Lydia with the suspicion of royalty being confronted with a peasant.

  “This is Miss Tomlinson. She’s come to help me today.”

  Willow bent to scoop baby Eva from the wagon and handed her to Lydia, then lifted Adam into her arms as well. Then, she retrieved a basket from where it had been perched on the little bench seat of the converted sledge.

  “May we come in?”

  At the sight of the babies, Boris’s lips thinned to the point of disappearing altogether.

  “I don’t think that Mr. Batchwell would approve of children in his—”

  “As I stated, I couldn’t find anyone else to watch them.” Her eyes narrowed in a silent challenge that Lydia wouldn’t have bel
ieved possible in her friend mere weeks before. “He does require a hot meal, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, madam. But—”

  “Then you’d best let me cook it.” Before Lydia could credit what she was seeing, Willow brazenly pushed past the man and entered the house. “Come along, Lydia.”

  Boris sputtered in protest, but a high-pitched bell came from somewhere inside the house—and judging by the way the man snapped to attention, Lydia surmised it was a summons from the master himself.

  “The kitchen is—”

  “I know where everything is, thank you, Boris. While you’re tending to Mr. Batchwell, you may as well help him move from the bed to the chair. He’ll want to eat sitting up and I promised him that I’d change his linens and take them back to the company laundry.”

  Boris’s lips moved silently—and it was clear he wanted to protest his imprisonment—but before he could speak, the bell rang again.

  After huffing in irritation, the man disappeared down a long marble corridor. Only when he was out of earshot did Willow giggle.

  “He really is a nice man. But he’s a bit puffed up around strangers.”

  “And women.”

  Willow conceded that point with a grin. “Come on. This way.”

  Chapter Eight

  Willow led the way down a shorter hall, then through a door that led into an enormous kitchen. Lydia’s mouth gaped when she took in the high ceilings, gleaming tile walls, multiple ranges and a preparation table that could have seated most of the brides at once.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Willow said. She went to the far corner where she spread out a blanket, then laid Adam on his back. Within a few seconds, she had the baby divested of his hat and outer coverings. Through it all, the infant gazed up at her with sleepy adoration. “This place is grand.” While Lydia held Eva, Willow followed suit with the smaller twin’s hat and knitted sacque. “But it’s cold. Not physically cold, mind you, just...sterile.”

  Gazing around her, Lydia could see that her friend had a point. The white marble walls, gleaming tile and chrome-adorned ranges were shiny and bright, but hard and unyielding.

  Much like Mr. Batchwell.

  “The larder is over there. Charles stocked it with meat and staples this morning, along with several loaves of bread from the baking we did in the cook shack. It will take me a few minutes to warm everything up and make a tray.” Willow’s gaze sparkled with amusement. “If you wouldn’t mind helping me change the linens on Mr. Batchwell’s bed in a few minutes...”

  Lydia moved to hand Willow the baby, but her friend shook her head.

  “Adam has been a little fussy today. We’ll take her with us so he’ll fall asleep.”

  Lydia glanced down at the baby in question, but he seemed fine to her. His eyes were nearly closed and he unconsciously tried to shove his fist into his mouth.

  “I think Eva would benefit from being held for a little while longer.”

  Lydia heard Boris’s footsteps in the hall.

  “But how are we going to—”

  Then it dawned on her. Willow had spoken of a grand plan, and now she was doing her best to arrange for Eva to be taken to Mr. Batchwell’s room.

  Aha.

  “I think you’re right, Willow. Eva could benefit from being held.”

  Boris stepped inside. “Mr. Batchwell would like tea with his meal rather than coffee.”

  “Of course.”

  In an exaggerated show of concern, Willow’s brow creased and she eyed Boris up and down.

  Lydia had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. Willow had a slight build, guileless blue eyes and a coronet of red-gold braids—and in that moment, she could have been the embodiment of innocence. Knowing she was up to something, Lydia unconsciously rocked the baby and decided to enjoy the show.

  “Mr. Boris, are you feeling quite well?” Willow asked.

  He glared, and Lydia wondered if Mr. Batchwell’s grumpiness was contagious.

  “The name is Boris Vladivostok, not Mr. Boris.”

  “But are you feeling well?”

  He glanced down, a hand smoothing over his somber suit jacket as if he were looking for the source of her concern.

  “Madam?”

  “It’s simply that we’ve had a wave of measles in the valley and you’re looking a touch...pale.” She turned to Lydia. “Don’t you think so?”

  Lydia nodded solemnly. “Mmm. He does look peaked. When was the last time you ate?”

  “This morning,” the man offered defensively. “I had my usual breakfast.”

  Willow stepped closer to Lydia. She lowered her voice, but not so much that Boris couldn’t hear them.

  “I don’t see any spots.”

  “Nooo. But there’s definitely something wrong.”

  “Perhaps some sun would do him good.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “At the very least, a brisk walk would bring the color back to his cheeks.”

  “I agree.”

  As their conversation continued, Boris’s expression lost some of its severity. Indeed, he began to adopt the look of a drowning man being thrown a lifeline.

  “Boris, Miss Lydia and I will be here for at least thirty—”

  “An hour,” Lydia inserted quickly.

  “An hour. Maybe two. I’m sure Mr. Batchwell will be eating most of that time.”

  “At least.”

  “If you’d like to take a walk—”

  “Get something to eat in the cook shack—”

  “Drop by the barber’s—”

  “Or the company store—”

  “We can take care of things here.”

  Clearly, they’d underestimated the degree of the man’s cabin fever because he muttered a quick, “Thank you, ladies!” Then he turned on his heel and strode toward the rear staircase. A few minutes later, he clattered back down, wearing his hat and coat.

  “I’ll be back in an hour!”

  “No rush.”

  The man dodged out the rear door, slamming it behind him.

  As soon as he was gone, Lydia giggled. “For a pastor’s wife, you are positively wicked.”

  * * *

  Gideon swung from his saddle and tied the reins to a nearby branch. Then, taking care to stay on the matted grass, he surveyed the area near the riverbanks.

  When he’d come to this spot once before, he’d been more intent on assuring himself that the fire he’d seen had actually existed, but this time, he took greater care examining the area around it.

  He’d done enough scouting work during the war that he could read the scene at a glance. There were boot prints still pressed into the mud. Large. Male. To one side, on the grassy verge, he found a patch of grass that had been pressed more firmly into the earth than the rest. A logical spot for a bedroll. In the fire pit, he could see the remnants of a log, so the flames had been extinguished in a hurry, rather than being allowed to burn themselves out.

  Crouching next to one of the boot prints, Gideon found no special markings. The soles were misshapen from the slickness of the mud, so Gideon would wager the man was tall, heavy or both.

  He slowly circled the area to see what else the campsite could tell him. On the far side, he found evidence of a horse, one that had been well-shod. Nearby, Gideon found what looked like the remains of crumpled butcher paper—a fact that set his teeth on edge. The garbage could have easily been burned, but the man who’d been here had seen fit to befoul the pristine wilderness instead. To Gideon, that spoke volumes about the person’s character.

  After making a complete circuit of the area, Gideon found the beginnings of the man’s trail away from the riverbank, so he retrieved his horse and swung into the saddle. Just as he’d supposed, the stranger had been heading toward the mouth of the canyon and Aspen Valley. Judgi
ng by the size and space of the hoof marks, there had been no rush. Instead, the horse had been kept to a slow, leisurely walk until...

  The road curved away from the river, hugging the side of the mountainside. In this spot, the shade had caused a thick sheet of ice to layer the track. Runoff from the upper slopes had drained and frozen, drained and frozen, obscuring signs of someone having been through the area.

  Since the spot also led to side trails that led into the trapping areas of the local mountain men, Gideon spent a fruitless hour looking for tracks, all without success. But even as his brain urged him to abandon the search and head back to town, he hesitated.

  Logically, he knew that the evidence of an encampment could be completely benign—and he reassured himself for the hundredth time that the fire could have been from one of the trappers or an eager homesteader wanting to find his claim as soon as the pass cleared.

  But his gut didn’t seem mollified by the idea.

  None of the trappers he knew would leave a fire pit behind, let alone scraps of paper. They would bury the ashes and leave the area as pristine as when they’d found it. And a homesteader...

  Gideon had never known a homesteader that would pass through the area without stopping in Aspen Valley to have a look around or introduce himself.

  He took his watch from his pocket and glanced at it one last time. He had at least another hour before he was needed back in town.

  It wouldn’t hurt to backtrack and have another look.

  * * *

  Willow carefully carried a tray of food up the back staircase while Lydia followed behind her with the basket of linens and Eva.

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea to bring the baby upstairs with us?” Lydia whispered.

  When they’d persuaded Boris to go to town, Lydia had agreed with Willow’s idea to bring the infant up to Batchwell’s private rooms. Ever since the twins had been found in Charles’s row house, Lydia had seen the way that the youngsters caused eyes to gravitate their way, voices to drop to a murmur, and even the most hardhearted miner to smile and speak gibberish.

  Not that Lydia had expected Batchwell to take one glance at Eva and become...human. But she had thought the infant might have the ability to mellow his mood.