as she’d been one in his.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t seem to shake away the feeling that—in his haste to get things back to normal again—he’d inadvertently denigrated the good the women had done.
His eyes automatically scanned the debris field left by the avalanche even as his mind worried over his conversation with Lydia. Despite what he’d said, he would be the first to admit that the ladies had improved Bachelor Bottoms—and he wasn’t merely referring to the change in their diet. The food they served at the cook shack—two hot meals and cold meats and cheeses for lunch—were above and beyond anything that Stumpy, the old mine chef, had ever prepared. During the past few cold winter months, the men had learned to treasure time spent over savory stews, rich breads and hearty soups. Gideon probably had a better idea than most the way that the women had carefully planned each repast to make the most out of the community’s dwindling supplies. They’d stretched the foodstuffs as far as possible, all without lessening the taste.
There were other ways the ladies had contributed even more. They’d nursed many of the men through illness and injury, brought order and warmth to their surroundings. Even the daily devotionals had grown sweeter from the sounds of their voices and Lydia’s touch on the pump organ. Gideon had no doubts that Aspen Valley would become quite dismal again when they left.
But they would have to leave.
Those were the rules of the mine. No drinking, smoking, cussing or women.
Perhaps Phineas Bottoms could be persuaded to take a second look at the requirements for employment, but Ezra Batchwell would never agree. Not in this lifetime or the next. The man was an ardent, confirmed bachelor—had been for as long as Gideon had known him. Gideon knew all about the rumors that the other miners whispered about the bearlike man who had helped to open up one of the most successful silver mines in the territories. That, as a young man, he’d been the victim of unrequited love—and after being refused, he’d vowed to live a life alone.
Gideon was sure that the story was so much hogwash. Ezra Batchwell was a businessman, through and through. He’d set his course on lifting himself out of the coal mines of Aberdeen and making his fortunes. And he’d done that. But that feat would be the very reason why he wouldn’t change his methods. Why would he tinker with success?
“Are things so very bad?”
Gideon jerked from his thoughts to find that Lydia remained by his side. Even more unsettling, she’d been watching him carefully—probably in an effort to read his thoughts again.
He forced himself to take in the slopes around him, the path of rocks and broken limbs. Up ahead, he could see the hulking shapes of the ruined railway cars poking through the drifts, looking like beached whales marooned from a sea of white. It wouldn’t be long before the carriages would be completely exposed. Once they were, a crew would salvage whatever the railroad might find useful. Then the twisted rails would be dragged out of the way so that the rail beds could be repaired, regraded, and lined with ties. Thankfully, the damage didn’t look nearly as bad as he and Jonah had supposed. Locomotives could probably start heading into the valley by summer.
But the women...
The women would be long gone by then.
He urged his mount the last few bounding strides to the top of the hill so that Gideon could look down, down, into the canyon below. For the first time in months, he could see the glint of the river and the muddy beginnings of a trail. There were still a few spots where negotiating the hairpin turns would be treacherous. But if the weather continued to warm up the way it had...
The brides could be carried out of the valley in a series of wagons by the end of the month.
“Gideon?”
He realized too late that she’d asked a question and still waited for an answer.
“Are things bad?”
He shook his head. “It’s melting a whole lot faster than any of us had anticipated.”
Her cheeks seemed to pale.
“How much longer do we have?”
He took a pair of field glasses from his saddlebags and peered through the lenses.
“If it doesn’t rain again? I’d say a week. Ten days at the most.”
He thought he heard her gasp. But when he lowered the glasses, her face was expressionless.
“That soon?”
Again, he couldn’t tell from her tone if he’d offered Lydia good news or bad.
Stuffing the field glasses back into place, he nodded. “You’d better tell the girls to start packing. As soon as we can get a rider through the pass to alert the railroad, and the trail looks steady enough for a team and wagon, we’ll start the evacuation.”
The word evacuation seemed wrong, somehow. As if the ladies were being taken somewhere better. Safer. But even though he knew they had to go—for the miners’ sakes as well as their own—Gideon couldn’t help thinking that, given the chance, the men of Bachelor Bottoms would have done everything in their power to make them feel at home.
* * *
The sky was growing dark before Lydia had a chance to relay the information she’d gathered from her trip up the mountain. By the time she’d helped Mr. Smalls take care of her mare, checked in with the women preparing and serving the evening meal, then played the pump organ for the evening Devotional, her brain was a-swirl with the myriad tasks that still needed to be accomplished. Only then could she and the other mail-order brides announce their demands and begin a proper protest.
Did they have enough time?
As she hurried toward the Dovecote, she could see the glow in the windows caused by the myriad lamps. She’d probably missed dinner with the other girls, but she had no doubts that one of the women would have placed a plate of food in the oven for her. Hot tea, coffee or cocoa would be waiting on the stove.
She stumbled, coming to a stop. Now that the sun had dipped below the mountains, the air was brisk, and her breath hung in front of her like a gossamer cloud. Overhead, the skies had become cloudy again and a light misting rain was swiftly turning to sleet.
For a moment, Lydia peered at the Dovecote, seeing the building for what it was—an old equipment shed that had been converted into a haphazard dormitory. The outer boards were rough and peeling. The yard was a series of puddles and matted brown grass. Planks had been stretched over the worst of the mud to give the brides a walkway to a front door that looked like it belonged to a feed store more than a residence.
But the Dovecote had become a home. Even from yards away, Lydia could hear female voices, snatches of singing, laughter.
For a girl who’d never known the company of sisters—or young women at all, for that matter—the dormitory had proven to be an adventure. Lydia had learned so much about herself—how to have patience and understanding, to share the burdens and accomplishments of others. It was for that reason that she’d been persuaded to organize their current plan.
Had they started too late? Would they be able to do enough to disrupt the routines of Bachelor Bottoms and its owners? Would Batchwell and Bottoms realize the extent of the sacrifices they demanded of their men? Could Lydia
