* *
“Sumner!”
Sumner moaned as the voice pierced her consciousness.
“Miss!”
She blinked, vainly trying to focus. But since she’d spent hours mulling over her conversation with Jonah Ramsey—reviewing every word the man had said—she’d wound herself tighter than a spring and sleep had become nearly impossible.
Her eyes drifted shut.
“Dr. Havisham, please!”
A hand shook her shoulder and Sumner’s eyes opened again. This time, she came face-to-face with Willow Granger.
“Willow?” she croaked. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine, fine. I’ve got a bruise big as a dinner plate, but most of the swelling has gone down.”
Willow was one of the reasons why Sumner had felt it necessary to approach Jonah at such an unreasonable hour. After tending to the woman’s leg, Sumner had found the girl crying in one of the rear supply closets. While the other mail-order brides had slipped out of their torn, wet clothing and hung their frocks to dry, Willow had clutched at the shapeless dress she wore. After divining that Willow had spent most of her adolescence in a strict charity school, Sumner had realized that the young woman had been unable to bring herself to strip down to her “shimmies” even if it was only in the presence of other women. Sumner had helped her to fashion a robe of sorts out of a pair of blankets so that Willow could rinse the mud from her hems and allow her dress to dry. For that, Sumner had earned herself a loyal assistant.
Willow regarded her with glittering blue eyes. In the early-morning glare, her skin was pale and spattered with freckles, and her curly red hair hung around her heart-shaped face like a wild mane.
Sumner cleared her throat, then rasped, “What is it, Willow?”
“There’s a man at the door. He says he’ll only talk to you.”
Jonah?
She scrambled up from the pallet on the floor. Automatically, her hands flew to her hair, and she squeaked when she realized that it was a mass of tangles.
“You’d better hurry. He said he didn’t have much time.”
Sumner glanced down at herself and fought the urge to squeal in protest. Besides being ill-fitting, her borrowed day dress was wrinkled, the print faded from years of wear. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about the way the hem nearly topped her boots.
She supposed she should be thankful she wasn’t answering the door in her all-togethers.
Nevertheless, she opened the door only a few inches and peered out, hoping it would prove unnecessary to step into the cold.
She sagged in relief when she found Creakle grinning at her, his hat in his hands. But she couldn’t help looking past him to see if Jonah was there, as well.
“Morning, missy!”
“Mr. Creakle.”
“This here’s Willoughby Smalls.”
Creakle pointed to his companion, who had to be at least seven feet tall with a squared-off jaw and a body as big and broad as a mountain.
“Mr. Smalls.”
“Willoughby don’t talk none, on account of how he was hit in the throat by a falling beam. But if you ever need some heavy liftin’, he’s your man.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smalls. I appreciate that kind offer.”
She thought the man might have blushed as he continued to stare at her, his grin growing wider with each passing moment. But when he didn’t speak, she finally prompted, “Did you men need something?”
“Oh. Oh, yes!” Creakle stepped back and made a flourishing sweep of his hand to something beyond her range of sight. “I’d ferget my head if’n it weren’t screwed on. Jonah asked me t’ make sure you got this.”
She slipped through the door and shut it tightly behind her. But when she saw the neat stacks of trunks and valises piled on the boardwalk, she couldn’t help gasping in delight.
“How on earth did Mr. Ramsey manage to do all this so quickly?”
Creakle snickered. “He offered the men two bits fer every trunk they managed t’ deliver before noon.” He nudged Smalls in the side with his elbow. “Willoughby an’ me have already made ourselves more’n five bucks a piece.” He glanced down at a watch he pulled from his vest. “I ’spect you’ll have the rest of it delivered by lunchtime.” He nodded and jammed his hat over his head. “Now, I know how you womenfolk like to have things just so, so’s I’m leaving Willoughby here t’ tote them trunks and boxes wherever you want them t’ go. Keep him with you as long as you like. He’s not due down in the mine until this evening.”
Creakle slid a glance in Smalls’s direction and the man nodded. Then, offering a hefty sigh, Creakle said, “Wish I could stay an’ help, but I’m needed at the office.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Good mornin’ t’ you, ma’am.” Then he began marching in the direction of the mine offices.
It was only then that Sumner became aware of several men in black wool coats posted near the main door and at either end of the Miners’ Hall.
“Mr. Creakle!”
He turned, squinting in her direction. “Yes, ma’am?”
Sumner couldn’t think of a discreet way of asking, so she decided to be direct. “Who are these other gentlemen?”
The men in question turned, revealing that they had holsters strapped to their hips and carried rifles in addition to their revolvers.
“They’re the company Pinkertons, ma’am.”
Her gaze bounced over the Pinkertons, one by one. In addition to their identical wool coats, they wore dark navy tunics with shiny badges.
“Pinkertons? But why are they here?”
“This here’s a silver mine, Dr. Havisham. Y’ gotta have security in a place like this.”
She shook her head. “No, Mr. Creakle. That’s not what I meant. Why are these men here?”
She gestured with her finger to the Miners’ Hall.
Creakle shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Ramsey ordered it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Creakle began backing away from her.
“He said it was fer y’all’s protection.”
Protection?
Sumner stiffened, an old familiar resentment filling her like white-hot steam. Of all the low-down, sneaky, conniving tricks. A trio of armed Pinkertons had been stationed outside a building filled with women who were injured, traumatized and at the complete mercy of
