paused. Sighed. Then momentarily lifted his hat. “Jonah Ramsey. I’m the superintendent of the Batchwell Bottoms mine.”
She’d only been in the valley for a few minutes and she’d already managed to irritate one of the top officials—a fact she could ill afford.
Sumner wasn’t foolish enough to think that the owners of the Batchwell Bottoms mine had willingly chosen a female doctor. Not when the rules of the community were so strict against the gentler sex. She’d been astounded when her letters of introduction had been answered—and even more amazed when further correspondence had led to an offer of employment.
We would be honored to offer you a five-year contract at our establishment...
Sumner had hardly been able to believe she’d been so blessed. She hadn’t just received a job; she’d been offered a contract for five years.
It hadn’t been until after she’d sent her acceptance that she’d begun to feel the first needling doubts.
Why on earth would a mining community so well-known for its stringent rules—no drinking, no cussing, no women—been willing to hire her as their doctor?
She’d tried to reassure herself that she wasn’t an actual miner but a member of the support staff. Next, she’d bolstered her inner argument by reminding herself that her professors and fellow staff at Ludlow’s Hospital for Women must have offered her a glowing recommendation. There was nothing untoward about her job or her appointment as mine doctor, despite her gender.
And then she’d remembered one salient point. Although she’d answered every question put to her by Ezra Batchwell and Phineas Bottoms, neither one had ever asked her if she were male or female.
They’d just assumed that Sumner Havisham was a man.
Even now, her body filled with the same frustration that she’d felt that day. But by then, it had been too late to retrieve the letter or clarify the offer—even if she’d wanted to do so. It shouldn’t matter whether she was male or female as long as she could do the job. It shouldn’t matter if her name were Sumner or Sally or Madame X.
Weeks later, when she’d received instructions, a sum of money for supplies and the journey and her travel arrangements, Sumner had decided to give the owners of the Batchwell Bottoms mine the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe they’d be accepting of her and her skills. She would journey to Utah Territory and see what happened. True, the owners might try to force her to leave so that they could find a “more suitable male replacement.” But with the weather closing in and a signed contract in her pocket, she’d hoped she could force her hand—for a few days, a few weeks, a few months. Long enough for her to find another position somewhere in America so she wouldn’t have to return to England.
Where the men were even more unreasonable than those in the wild and woolly American territories.
She blinked, unable to keep herself from studying the man who stood in front of her. If anyone epitomized the rough and rugged men of the West, Jonah Ramsey fit the bill. He wore his hat low over his brow, and his hair exploded from below the brim in an unruly tangle of waves. His beard was full and needed a trim, and his eyes...
Those eyes could melt ice with their intensity.
And they were focused on her.
His gaze was so direct that it caused a prickling to skitter down her spine, but she ignored it. Instead, overlooking the fact that her appearance wasn’t entirely conducive to formal introductions, she held out her hand. Best to show the man at the very beginning that she considered herself his equal.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Superintendent Ramsey.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as if she were behaving untowardly. She realized that Bachelor Bottoms had a “no women” policy, which probably meant they had a “no touching” policy.
Did that include shaking her hand?
Or was Mr. Ramsey one of those incredibly stuffy gentlemen who believed that a woman shouldn’t offer introductions herself, but should wait for a male relative to do so?
If Mr. Ramsey was waiting for any kin to offer such niceties, he would wait a very long time.
He reluctantly closed her fingers in his. Her skin was icy and numb from digging through the snow, but it wasn’t so cold that it didn’t immediately absorb the warmth of his clasp. In that brief instant, she became intimately conscious of the calluses at his palms, the strength of his grip and the long, slender fingers that nearly swallowed hers whole.
Then, just as quickly, he released her and began tugging on his gloves.
“If you’ll wait over there,” he prompted.
It wasn’t a complete dismissal, but it felt awfully close. Clearly, Mr. Ramsey wasn’t pleased with her identity or her profession.
Her spine stiffened and her chin tilted infinitesimally. Ignoring the disarray of her clothing and her disheveled hair, she picked up her skirts and marched with as much dignity and decorum as she could muster. She’d been treated worse before and she supposed that she would be again.
But if Mr. Ramsey thought that she would be dissuaded from practicing medicine in Bachelor Bottoms by such aloofness alone...
He had another think coming.
It was well past midnight when Jonah brought a halt to the rescue operation on the hill. By that time, they were able to confirm that the railroad crew, nine farmers and businessmen, a widow, two families and forty-one mail-order brides had been found—all fifty-nine of them.
No. Make that sixty.
Because there was the doctor.
Sumner Havisham.
A woman.
Thanks to the Good Lord, there had been no fatalities. But some of the injuries had been severe. There were broken bones, gashes and head wounds. Two women and the conductor were currently unconscious, and they were already running low on medical supplies—which didn’t bode well for the rest of the winter. Especially since it didn’t look like anyone would be leaving Bachelor Bottoms anytime soon.
“You’re sure the pass is blocked?” Creakle asked for the hundredth time.
Jonah silenced him with a warning glance. “Let’s not spread that piece of news around, Creakle.”
“But you don’t know for sure, do you? I mean, once it’s light outside, y’ might see another way out,” Creakle said, his tone only minutely softer.
Obviously, Creakle was hoping that Jonah was exaggerating because the man’s expression fell and his eyes took on the woe of a little boy who’d been told Christmas was canceled. Being cut off meant that there would be no fresh supplies. No more shipments of food or goods. Even worse, no deliveries from Creakle’s beloved Montgomery Ward catalog.
“But there could be some other way out?” Creakle asked again, his tone full of both hope and dread.
“Maybe,”
