Accidental Sweetheart

by Lisa Bingham

  And if he didn’t remain on guard, they could all be dragged down into events that could lead to untold harm.

  * * *

  Your father has escaped from prison and it is only a matter of time before he finds you.

  Lydia’s hands trembled as she finished pinning the last braid in place. As she stood in front of the mirror, eyeing her reflection in the harsh morning light, even she could see that she looked pale.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Iona asked behind her.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t fine. She’d spent the night poring over her aunts’ letters, charting the progression of her guardians’ emotions from the first note expressing their pride in her independence, to the worry that she hadn’t informed them of her arrival, their frustration when the railway company had no information on the missing train, to their apprehension once the blocked pass had been discovered.

  And then that final letter.

  Your father and five members of his original gang have escaped from prison. From what we’ve been able to deduce, he is rounding up an army of old followers. He may seek retribution.

  Lydia closed her eyes, then opened them again when the image of Clinton Tomlinson seemed to swim into view.

  Some might think that her aunts were being overly dramatic. It would have been more logical for her father and the Tommy Gang, as they’d called themselves, to ride hard for Mexico.

  But Lydia knew her father well. Once he felt he’d been slighted, he would demand retribution. She’d seen him knife a man for accidentally bumping into him on a crowded street. That being said, how much more vicious would his retribution be for the daughter who’d been responsible for sending him and his men to prison?

  Iona laid a hand on Lydia’s shoulder, causing her to start.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling well? I know for a fact you didn’t sleep a wink last night.” She hesitated before adding, “Did you receive bad news in those letters Mr. Gault gave you?”

  “They were from my aunts. Actually, most of their news was good. They realized right away when I didn’t telegraph them of my arrival that something had happened.” She could picture Aunts Rosie and Florence—one of them tall and thin, the other short and stout—storming the railway offices demanding answers. The two of them would have been a formidable force. “From what I could gather, they insisted the railway company investigate matters. Then, when it became clear that the pass had been blocked by an avalanche, they begged them to send a rescue party.”

  “Which would have been nigh on impossible. If there had been any way to get through that canyon, Batchwell would have tossed all of us out on our ears.”

  Lydia nodded. “They wrote dozens of letters, willing themselves to believe I was still alive, having faith that their notes would get to me at some point.” A portion of her anxiety coated the words. “And yet, even burdened with their own worries, they requested that the railway company give them the names of everyone on board so that they could notify their relatives of what had occurred.”

  Iona touched a hand to her lips. “Thank the Good Lord Above. I’ve been so worried about what my sister was thinking all this time.”

  “Which is why we need to be successful in our plans today. We only have a matter of days before we’ll be able to contact our loved ones ourselves. And it’s my goal that, when we do, we have a wealth of choices available to us for our future plans—including being able to stay in Bachelor Bottoms.”

  Lydia knew more than anyone that their time was swiftly running out. They had to see their protest through to the end before Clinton Tomlinson could throw a wrench into the works.

  Straightening her shoulders, Lydia took a deep breath, then said, “Let’s go.”

  She and Iona hurried downstairs where the rest of the women waited for them. Before speaking, Lydia did a quick head count. A small contingent of women had gone to the cook shack that morning to prepare the meals. There were already six women guarding the “quarantine” locations. That left...thirty-two women to help carry out their plan.

  “Ladies...ladies!”

  The chatter died down and all eyes turned in her direction.

  “As you may have heard, a messenger from Ogden was able to make his way into the valley yesterday.” A murmur rippled through the group at that information. “Among the items he brought were several letters from my aunts, which were forwarded through the railway company. I wanted to let you know that, through their efforts, our plight was discovered within a few days after the avalanche occurred. Soon thereafter, my aunts went to great lengths to contact your families so that they knew a rescue would be sent as soon as possible.”

  The group erupted. Lydia could only distinguish smattered phrases.

  What a relief.

  Praise be to the Lord!

  After a moment, Lydia held up her hands until the group grew silent.

  “Unfortunately, now that a messenger has confirmed our whereabouts—as well as the fact that the pass is negotiable—it’s only a matter of time before we are either escorted from the valley or our rescue party appears.”

  Murmurs rose, then fell.

  “That means that we are running out of time.”

  She saw that some of the women instinctively reached out to squeeze a hand or touch a shoulder.

  “Ladies, this has been a trying few months for all of us. But I think that I can safely say we’ve all been enriched by the experience.” She lifted her hands to gesture to the group at large. “We have made wonderful friendships.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “And we’ve all grown through the many acts of service that we’ve been able to render in the cook shack, the infirmary and the community at large.”

  Several of the women applauded, so she waited a moment before holding up her hands again.

  “Last of all, for some of you, this experience has brought you something that you never expected to find. Love.”

  Her eyes scanned the group. There were those she knew of—Hannah and Greta, who had formed attachments with a pair of men from Wales; Stefania, a gentleman from Greece; Myra and Miriam, who had astoundingly fallen in love with a pair of brothers from a town in Virginia less than a half-dozen miles away from their own birthplace.

  For each romance Lydia knew about, she was sure that more were being kept secret.

  “I realize that so many of you are eager to return to the lives and futures that were interrupted. But I think that we are all agreed that our last act of service should be to our friends and this community that we have grown to love.”

  This time the applause was even louder.

  Lydia took a calming breath. “So, ladies. Let’s bow our heads and pray. And for this special prayer, let’s all join hands.”

  Bit by bit, the women shifted into a circle, linking hands with one another.

  “Dear Father, we are so very grateful for all that Thou has given us: our health, our safety, and our love for one another and this beautiful corner of Thy Kingdom. We thank Thee for the men of Aspen Valley who have kindly given us shelter and provided for our welfare. At this time, we ask for Thy special hand in our endeavors. If it be Thy will, please help us to bring a change to this valley so that this might be a proper home for all. One where families can flourish under Thy hand. For these and all Thy bounties, we are truly grateful. Amen.”

  “Amen!”

  Lydia’s eyes stung with tears as she surveyed the group of friends before her.

  No. Not friends.

  Sisters.

  A tightness gripped her throat and she waited a moment before subtly clearing it. Then she smiled broadly and drew to military-like attention.

  “All right, ladies. You’ve all been given a list of targets and objectives. If we’re going to succeed, we need to work quietly, quickly and maintain the element of
surprise. Are there any last questions?”

  When no one raised a hand, she nodded.

  “Don’t forget to report your progress to Iona. She’ll be stationed in the cook shack until midday when we begin phase two of our plan.”

  Iona waved. “I’ll be eager to cross off all the items on our list or to fortify you with some strong tea.”

  The women laughed, then turned their attention back to Lydia.

  “We can do this,” Lydia said firmly. “We are strong and resourceful, and we’re fighting for the most important cause on earth. Our families.”

  Again, a hand seemed to clutch her throat. Until her aunts had taken her in, Lydia hadn’t known what that word meant. Her father had insisted that family meant shared blood and blind loyalty—even if such devotion meant abandoning one’s values.

  But when she’d been led up the walkway to her aunts’ brownstone, Lydia had been given her first taste of what the word really meant. The two poised, elegant women hadn’t seemed to notice that their niece came to them dressed like a filthy little boy, or that her manners were shockingly nonexistent, or that, at age twelve, she could barely read or write.

  No, these beautiful, strong, independent women—women of infinite gentility—had enfolded her into their sweet embrace. Even now, Lydia could remember their two distinct perfumes. One carnations, the other lilies of the valley. Then, these self-proclaimed spinsters had welcomed her into their home as if they’d been waiting their entire lives for her to appear so that their circle of love would be complete.

  “Ladies, with a little more work, we can bring this entire protest to a satisfactory end within a day, so give this everything you’ve got.”

  The women cheered.

  “Gather into your units, choose your weapons and get to work!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Myra and Miriam Claussen casually walked toward the barbershop, each of them carrying enormous baskets in one hand and their bulging reticules in the other.

  “Do you have the sign?” Myra whispered, sotto voce.

  “Of course, I have the sign,” Miriam muttered under her breath.

  They could hear Mr. Bramblyhurst setting up inside his shop. From the opposite end of town, they could pick out the last few notes of the postlude being played in the distance.

  “Tack it up, tack it up!”

  Miriam quickly hung the placard next to the front door.

  Free haircuts and shaves for the first 20 men.

  Form line here.

  The door rattled as Mr. Bramblyhurst unlocked it, but thankfully, he didn’t open it.

  A wave of miners began to appear, moving from the Meeting House to the cook shack for the first meal of the day. Myra and Miriam began calling out, “Free shaves and haircuts!”

  It only took a few minutes for a line to form. Miriam made her way down the queue counting. When they had twenty men, she lifted her arm to show Myra that they’d reached their limit.

  Myra immediately opened the door. “This way, gentlemen. Move toward the rear until everyone is inside. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “What’s going on here?” Mr. Bramblyhurst called out as he stepped in from the back room. “Some of you will have to come back later.”

  As the last gentlemen stepped inside, she and Miriam slammed the door shut, set their baskets on the ground, then removed a pair of revolvers from their reticules.

  “You’re all under arrest!” Myra shouted. “Get down on the ground!”

  The men whirled to face them, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of the twins brandishing their weapons.

  Miriam chanced a glance at her sister. “They aren’t under arrest,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Oh.” Myra gathered her thoughts. “You aren’t under arrest, but you’re now our prisoners, so sit down!”

  The men mumbled in confusion, but the sound of a pair of hammers being cocked caused them to lower themselves to the floor.

  “Excellent, excellent!”

  Myra waited a beat of silence. Two. Then looked at Miriam. “What were we supposed to do next?”

  “The baskets.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Gentlemen, you will not be allowed to leave this barbershop for any reason until we tell you...that...that you can go.”

  She glanced at her sister in time to see Miriam roll her eyes.

  “Get the windows, Miriam!”

  Miriam quickly went to pull the blinds on the large picture window. Then, she moved to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and pulled the smaller shade over that one as well.

  “The back door, Miriam.”

  Miriam hurried to do the same to the storage room, effectively closing them all into the shadowy narrow shop.

  “Well done, Miriam.”

  “Thank you, sister.”

  “Gentlemen, we apologize for the inconvenience, and presently we’ll explain ourselves. In the meantime...”

  Miriam lugged the baskets to the center of the room and whisked off the checkered cloths to reveal a mountain of food.

  “Is anyone hungry?”

  * * *

  The bell to the company store jingled overhead as Emmarissa Elliot and Louise Wilkes stepped inside.

  “He’s alone,” Emmarissa whispered to her friend, referring to Marty Grooper who ran the establishment.

  “Then let’s get this done before someone else comes in.”

  Emmarissa hesitated. “Let’s try to do this without the guns first. Follow my lead.”

  “Just be swift about it!”

  The two women strode to the counter.

  “Mr. Grooper,” Emmarissa said, leaning forward as if she didn’t want her words to be overheard.

  “Yes, Miss...”

  “Elliot.”

  “How can I help you, Miss Elliot?”

  She dropped her voice even more. “I wonder if I could ask your advice on a delicate matter?”

  This time, it was Mr. Grooper who leaned forward. “Of course.”

  “And I can rely upon your discretion?”

  “On my word, yes.”

  Emmarissa scrambled for a way to get the man to move to the middle of the store, away from the shield of his counter.

  “I seem to be having a problem with my...” she dropped her voice to a whisper “...my garters, Mr. Grooper. And since this is an all-male establishment, I don’t suppose that you have any on hand.”

  The man visibly swallowed. “No. No, we’ve never had any call for them.”

  “I know it’s an imposition, but...could you take a look at the metal buckles and see if there’s something you can recommend? Either a substitution—or perhaps a repair?”

  He reached to straighten his slender string tie. “I—I’ll do my best.”

  As Emmarissa had hoped, he walked around the glass cases of knives and boots and safety lamps to join her in the center of the room.

  Emmarissa shot a warning glance to her friend, then lifted her skirts, one inch, two, lifting up, up, up to the top of her boot.

  Mr. Grooper crouched closer.

  Clang!

  The man dropped unceremoniously at her feet.

  Looking up, Emmarissa found her friend brandishing a cast iron skillet from a nearby display.

  “I hope you didn’t hit him too hard.”

  Louise seemed blissfully unconcerned. “’Twas nothing more than a glancing blow. Let’s take him into the back and tie him up.”

  They had done little more than hook their arms beneath his when the bell jingled.

  Emmarissa dropped her side of the storekeeper and tried to shelter the man from view. But it was no use. Ephraim Zapata, the machine shop foreman, gazed at them in confusion.

  “Mr. Zapata! We need your help,” Louise suddenly exclaimed. “We w
ere speaking to Mr. Grooper and he...well, he simply collapsed on the floor. Could you help us take him to the back room? I’m sure he has a cot there. If we could lay him down and get him some water, maybe we could revive him.”

  Zapata rushed to sling the wizened man over his shoulder. Trailing along behind him, Emmarissa grinned at the man’s unwitting assistance. As soon as Louise and Zapata had passed into the back room, Emmarissa quickly shut the heavy green curtains that separated the store from the back rooms.

  Clang!

  Grinning, Emmarissa tied one of Mr. Grooper’s heavy grocer’s aprons around her waist and stowed the reticule with her revolver under the counter. She was straightening when the bell over the door jingled.

  “Good morning, Mr. Barsad,” she proclaimed, raising her voice enough to be heard by Louise. “I’ll be happy to help you with your purchases, but first...do you think you could help me in the back room?”

  * * *

  It was nearing lunchtime, but Gideon still hunched over the papers on his desk. He’d pored over the warning letter sent to him by the Pinkerton offices in Denver that oversaw many of the smaller branches throughout the territories. As Gideon had outlined to his men, so far, officials had nothing more concrete than rumors of a plot to steal the silver ore being shipped from Aspen Valley to Denver. But credible sources spoke of a sizeable group of men being gathered, as well as weapons and horses. If the various reports were to be believed, the attempt would be made somewhere along the journey, after the ore had been loaded onto railway cars. But Gideon should remain alert, especially now that the news had begun to circulate that the railway line into the valley had been damaged.

  Gideon rubbed at the ache centering between his brows as he continued to study a log of interviews made by several detectives in the territories. If news of the ruined tracks had become common knowledge, even a child could see that a huge whopping weakness had opened up in the Batchwell Bottoms Mine’s security.

  More than ever before, Gideon knew he should be focusing on the logistics of reestablishing the telegraph lines, getting the women out of the valley, and hauling the stockpiled ore to the nearest section of undamaged track. Instead, he couldn’t seem to think of anything but the Wanted poster still hidden in his desk. One with a rudimentary sketch of a striking woman and her name: Lydia Angelica Tomlinson.