“Mr. Gault.”
He stiffened. Without turning, he recognized the voice of Miss Lydia Tomlinson, one of the marooned women. As a self-professed suffragist, she’d become the unofficial leader of the ladies in the past few months. In Gideon’s opinion, the woman meant trouble with a capital T. She had a way of putting...ideas in the other brides’ heads. And since she didn’t have much regard for authority, she could be a handful.
Gideon mentally prepared himself, knowing that any conversation with Miss Tomlinson would prove to be an intellectual skirmish. She could talk a mule into surrendering his left hind leg if she had a mind to do so—and the mule would give it up willingly.
He leaned in to the Pinkerton office one more time—as if by some miracle, one of his men would appear and relieve him of the need to match wits with Lydia. But there would be no such deliverance. Instead, he was forced to step outside.
Automatically, his gaze swept the boardwalk, looking for the miners who’d come out of the hall—but there was no sign of them.
He was losing his ever-loving mind.
In the meantime, Miss Tomlinson scrutinized him from the tip of his hat to his dusty boots, then regarded Gideon as if he were slightly daft.
Sighing, he touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “And how are you this lovely morning, Miss Tomlinson?”
One of her brows lifted. Clearly, she’d caught the thread of resignation in his tone.
“Quite well, Mr. Gault. Nevertheless, I wondered if you and I could have a word.”
Gideon seriously doubted such a thing was possible. Lydia Tomlinson didn’t exchange a word. She talked and talked and talked. To be fair, she was an intelligent creature with a good head on her shoulders. But she could be so bossy.
“About?” he asked cautiously.
Her eyes narrowed. “You needn’t look like I’m proposing to escort you to a firing squad.”
Apparently, she could read minds as well.
Gideon purposely relaxed the line of his shoulders and tried his best to make his hands hang loose at his sides.
“There was no such stuff in my thoughts.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her lips thinned. “I wish to discuss a matter of business with you.”
Gideon couldn’t imagine what kind of “business” the two of them might share. But he supposed that since Ezra Batchwell was unavailable, and Jonah Ramsey had been quarantined at home with measles, Gideon was probably the next company man on her list with whom she intended to argue.
“What can I do for you?”
She shifted, her gaze roaming the streets around them. For a moment, sunlight slipped over her cheeks and highlighted the delicate curve of her jaw. She really was a pretty woman—tall, slim, with honey-colored hair. If she weren’t so...snippy...
“I would rather divulge the subject inside. Away from prying eyes.”
One last time, Gideon allowed his gaze to roam Main Street, from the mine opening to the slopes of the Uinta mountains in the distance. Near as Gideon could tell, there wasn’t a soul in town who could “pry.” But there was no use arguing the point.
He held the door wide. “After you, Miss Tomlinson.”
“You may call me Lydia, Mr. Gault.”
Gideon was pretty sure that if he used Lydia’s Christian name, his own mother would roll over in her grave. Clotilde Gault had been a stickler for proper social customs and morés, and an unmarried gentleman did not take such liberties with an unmarried woman—even if she did spout on about the emancipation of women and the equality of the sexes.
“How can I help you, Miss Tomlinson?”
Her lips pursed, ever so slightly, but thankfully, she didn’t press him into dispensing with the formalities.
“The ladies have been discussing the rapid melting of the snow.”
She paused, clearly waiting for a reaction, so he offered a noncommittal, “Oh?”
“By our reckoning, it seems as if most of the drifts have wasted into nothing. If this continues, we’re worried that the standing puddles around the Dovecote will soon flood into the house.”
So, she did have a logical reason for her visit.
“Jonah Ramsey and I have been keeping our eye on the water levels—or we were until he took sick. If necessary, he’s given orders to dig a series of drainage ditches to the river. But at this point, such efforts would probably be premature. Here in the high Uinta mountain range, spring can be unpredictable. These high temperatures could give way to a Utah blizzard at a moment’s notice. I’ve seen the weather change from freezing cold to blazing heat, to snow, hail and rain, all within a single afternoon.”
Lydia looked skeptical, but she didn’t push the point. Instead, she said, “The women would be more than happy to help dig should the need arise. I know with the new tunnel that manpower has been spread thin.”
Gideon’s mouth opened, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Somehow, he couldn’t bring to mind the image of Lydia or the other girls slogging through the mud with pickaxes and shovels, fashioning a trench that would stretch the hundred feet from the Dovecote to the Aspen River.
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Miss Tomlinson. I’m sure that the mining company could gather a crew should we need it.”
She nodded, then lapsed into silence. Her gaze roamed the room, taking in the utilitarian office.
Unlike many of the other buildings in town, this one had not fallen under the women’s purview. While the cook shack, the Meeting House, and even the Miners’ Hall had been scrubbed and polished until they gleamed, this space was clearly run by men. Mud streaked the floors and the desks were littered with papers, logbooks and coffee mugs. The only nod to neatness was the rifles lined up on a rack against the far wall.
For some reason, the untidiness caused a warmth to steal up Gideon’s neck. Judging by the way Miss Tomlinson invariably dressed to perfection in frilly dresses with nipped-in waists, he’d bet she was a stickler for orderliness. Today, she looked especially fine in a red gingham dress with black braid trim.
“Was there something else, Miss Tomlinson?”
Rather than speaking, she moved restlessly around the room. Despite the warmth of the day, she wore delicate kid gloves the exact shade of crimson as the capelet that graced her shoulders.
Where did a woman find red leather gloves?
As she moved, Gideon felt compelled to shift to face her—until he had the sensation of becoming a sunflower tracking the orbit of the sun.
“I suppose that leads me to my main question,” she said, regarding him from beneath her lashes.
The look
