to have another talk.
“Lord, give me strength,” Sumner murmured to herself as she slapped her best bonnet on her head.
“What are you going to do?” Willow asked, reluctantly holding up a hand mirror so that Sumner could check her reflection.
Sumner had tried her best to keep the news of the Pinkertons a secret, but she hadn’t been very successful. Although many of the mail-order brides had been diverted with checking the contents of their trunks, changing into fresh frocks and setting up a washing station, a few of them had noticed the armed men posted outside their door. As Sumner shrugged into her coat, she spoke softly to the small knot of women who stood with her.
Besides Willow Granger, there was Iona Skye, a widow in her sixties who had traveled with them since New York City. Unable to make ends meet on her own, she was destined for her sister’s farm in California. Beside her stood Lydia Tomlinson, an effervescent blonde from Boston, who, along with Iona, were the only women not contracted to become mail-order brides. Lydia was en route to San Francisco, where she would embark on a lecture tour to spread the word about women’s suffrage and temperance. The last few members of the group hovering around Sumner were a trio of brides-to-be, Ruth Hubbard, Stefania Nicos and Marie Rousseau.
“What are you going to say to the man?” Stefania whispered.
Lydia scowled. “She’s going to tell Mr. Ramsey that we aren’t convicts, we’re stranded travelers.”
The conversation washed over Sumner as she checked her hair and gown as much as the small mirror would allow. Thankfully, among the trunks and valises that Mr. Smalls had carried into the hall, she’d managed to find her own things—and therefore, a change of clothing, her brush and a fresh stock of hairpins. Through it all, she’d tried her best to maintain a semblance of calm, but inwardly...
Inwardly, she’d been seething.
“Please don’t let me lose my temper,” she whispered under her breath.
Lydia Tomlinson must have heard her because she cocked her head to the side and offered, “Nonsense. You need to go into the office with guns blazing, Sumner. Don’t hide your emotions behind that unflappable English charm. Otherwise, they’ll be locking us in soon. And I, for one, am already stir-crazy.”
The other women nodded in agreement.
“We all know that the arrival of the Pinkertons—and the weak excuse of their being here for our protection—is nothing more than an opening volley in a declaration of war.”
Sumner supposed the other women were right. After conversing with Jonah Ramsey, she’d deluded herself into thinking that the man could be pragmatic, perhaps even a bit empathetic toward the women’s plight. And for one brief second, when she’d seen their belongings on the boardwalk, she’d believed the man might be persuaded to look at the situation from the women’s point of view.
She’d obviously been mistaken. Sadly mistaken. Apparently, Jonah Ramsey was cut from the same cloth as her father, her stepbrother, her professors and all of the other opinionated males she’d encountered over the past few years. Clearly, Sumner seemed doomed to butt heads with men who were determined to squash women into what they felt was “their place,” and the superintendent of the Batchwell Bottoms mine was no different.
But this time, it wasn’t just Sumner who was being repressed. It was all of the women who were in her care. And it was time to set the record straight.
“How do I look?” she breathed, realizing that she’d already fussed over her preparations long enough.
Iona reached out to squeeze her hand. “You appear very calm, cool and collected. Every inch a lady.”
If only that were true.
“You’ll do fine, Sumner,” Willow offered quietly.
Sumner nodded, then opened the door and slipped outside while the rest of the brides were distracted with instructing Mr. Smalls where to move their trunks.
The frigid air against her hot cheeks was welcome as she turned toward the mine offices. But she’d only taken a few steps when she was halted by one of the Pinkertons. He even had the utter gall to brandish his weapon in warning.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’ve been asked to keep you here.”
“Your name?” she asked abruptly.
“Lester Dobbs.”
“Am I under arrest, Mr. Dobbs?”
The guard’s brows creased, his mustache twitching in confusion.
“Ma’am?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you can get out of my way or you can trail along behind me. But those are your only two choices because I intend to talk to Mr. Ramsey.” When the man didn’t budge, Sumner allowed a portion of her frustration to tinge her tone. “Now.”
To his credit, the Pinkerton tried to stand his ground—he even attempted to meet the blazing intensity in her gaze. Before long, Dobbs sighed, lowered his rifle and allowed her to pass. Even so, as she stormed toward the mining offices, he trailed along behind her, clearly embarrassed with the assignment he’d been given.
Sumner balled her hands into fists and increased her speed. What fueled her anger wasn’t the fact that she’d had to fight—tooth and nail—to gain an education and a career, that she’d been thrown the scraps of opportunities lavished on men with half the talent and dedication that she’d displayed in her chosen profession. No, what infuriated her was that these women—women who had been injured, stranded and placed in her protection—were to be so cavalierly mistreated just because someone had deemed them “inconvenient.”
No, no, no.
Since obtaining her diploma and emancipating herself from her father’s overbearing rule, she’d pledged that she would never allow a man to control her again—and that she would fight for the same rights for other women, as well.
But even as the frigid gusts of wind stung her cheeks, common sense managed to wriggle its way into her brain. After last night’s confrontation with the owners, Sumner knew she was walking a fine line. As much as she might rail against the men in charge, there was also a part of her that wanted—needed—to make a good impression.
After completing her medical training, she’d found it nearly impossible to find a position. The best she’d managed to scrape up was a midwife’s assistant’s job at a woman’s hospital in Bristol. She’d spent over a year scouring every advertisement she could find for work. So, when, on a whim, she’d applied to the Batchwell Bottoms mine and they’d offered a five-year contract, it hadn’t occurred to her that a mistake might have been made. She’d wanted this job so badly. When she’d realized the owners had assumed she was a man, she’d been so sure that she could impress the owners with her skills and make a place for herself in the wilds of the US Territories.
Unfortunately, during her first real meeting with Batchwell
