regretted the movement, wondering if she would interpret it as a defensive gesture.
Once again, he felt a prickling sensation. His instincts told him that Miss Tomlinson was up to something.
But what?
Gideon’s men had already relaxed their guard substantially since Batchwell’s accident. Short of allowing the ladies to wander all over town at will, what more could she want of him?
“Have you sent anyone to check the pass?”
Of all the questions he might have suspected she’d ask, that was the last one that would have popped into his mind. Even so, Gideon hesitated.
“Not yet. I’d planned on riding up that way later this afternoon.”
“Excellent. When should I meet you at the livery?”
It took a full second for her query to sink into his brain.
She wanted to go with him.
Not knowing how best to respond, Gideon stalled.
“Meet me?”
“Since the condition of the pass will determine the fate of the women, I think it’s only logical that I accompany you.”
He held out a hand. “Oh, no. No, no, no. This isn’t a jaunty buggy ride in the countryside, Miss Tomlinson. Despite the fact that the roads have become clear in the valley, up by the canyon, the slopes will be treacherous at best. The debris field left from the avalanche will be unstable and full of the rocks and broken tree limbs that were brought down from the higher elevations. If we can get into the canyon at all, we’ll be headed into terrain kept in shade most of the day. That could mean encountering ice and even the threat of another avalanche.”
Lydia’s eyes seemed to snap, even though she maintained her neutral expression.
“Do you take me for a fool, Mr. Gault?”
How was he supposed to answer that question without getting himself into trouble?
“No, ma’am.”
He mentally grimaced when his tone emerged with a hint of a question.
Again, her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t remark on his inflection. Instead, she said, “I wasn’t proposing a buggy ride at all, Mr. Gault. I am fully aware of the hazards and consequences of the weather—which is why I intended to meet you at the livery. I’m certain that Mr. Smalls could be persuaded to loan me a mount. Rest assured, I’m a qualified rider.”
“We don’t have sidesaddles here at Bachelor Bottoms,” Gideon said with what he hoped was a negligent shrug. Inwardly, he congratulated himself on his quick thinking. There was no way that Miss Fancy Pants could get on a horse with all those ruffles and gathers and lace unless she used one.
Unfortunately, the moment she scowled, he realized that he’d managed to irritate her even further.
“I didn’t think that you would, Mr. Gault.”
“And you can’t be going anywhere in...that.” He made a vague gesture to the frilliness of her attire. “You’d freeze to death the minute we hit the shady patches.”
“What time, Mr. Gault?”
Her tone reminded him of Sister Grundy, his childhood Sunday School teacher. Miss Grundy’s voice had held the same thread of steel when Gideon had tried to bring a frog to church under the guise of “educating one of God’s creatures.”
He sighed and glanced at the clock over his desk. In the silence, the tick-tock of the timepiece seemed overly loud—and Miss Tomlinson’s toe tapping impatiently against the floor merely served as an accompaniment.
“How about one o’clock?”
The appointed time was less than an hour away—and by his standards, he doubted that any woman could get herself changed into suitable clothes and return to town. His sisters had never managed such a feat.
“Very well. One o’clock.”
With that, she strode past him in a wave of something that smelled like lemons and gardenias. In doing so, she managed to hook the door and pull it closed behind her with a resounding slam! that rattled the windows.
Gideon couldn’t help chuckling. Lydia Tomlinson might be a pain in the neck most days...
But she was like a firecracker with a faulty fuse. A body never knew what might set her off.
And oh, what fun it was to see what it took to get her to lose control.
* * *
Lydia marched down the boardwalk, a secret smile twitching at the corners of her lips. She really hadn’t meant to slam the door quite so hard...
But she’d needed to signal to her friends that Gideon Gault was no longer being distracted.
Within seconds, Stefania and Marie joined her, and the three of them walked down the boardwalk, heading out of town toward the Dovecote.
“Any progress?” Lydia asked.
“We were able to get five more men.”
Lydia shot a glance at the other girls, catching their barely submerged glee. “Five? How?”
“We threw a blanket over each of them and hauled them into the cook shack. From there, we explained the nature of our protest and how they could help.”
“And they all agreed to join our cause?”
“Klute Ingraham is still thinking about it. But Iona started plying him with pie, so I think his stomach will declare its allegiance soon enough. If that doesn’t work, Iona is prepared to mourn the fact that the stuffed ferrets he provided for decoration in the Dovecote need a new set of clothes for spring.”
Since Klute had a passion for taxidermy and dressing his creations in fanciful clothes, Lydia supposed that would keep him from comprehending the true nature of his situation. In essence, he was a prisoner to the mail-order brides. He and the other men they’d taken hostage would remain in their control until their demand was met: an end to the “no women” clause in the mine’s rule book.
“Well done! Where are you keeping this batch?”
“At the infirmary for now. Since Sumner has been forced to remain home with Jonah during his quarantine, we figured that no one would bother to look there.”
“And who do you have guarding them?”
“Greta and Hannah.”
Lydia laughed. Greta was a plump Bavarian woman who knew very little English. What words she knew, she offered in a big booming voice. Even if she bellowed her orders in German, she more than captured a man’s attention. Hannah was a sturdy farm girl from Ohio. The pair of them should be more than capable of guarding their captives.
“That brings our total to...”
