so far, your only doctoring has been on women. I’ve seen the correspondence you’ve had with the owners. All your experience was completed at a charity hospital in Bristol.”
“A fact that has little relevance.”
“It will have a great deal of relevance when the next injured miner refuses to let you treat him. And if that’s the case, what use are you to any of us?”
The words shivered in the cold, echoing into the darkness.
You’re just a girl.
“We shall see about that, Mr. Ramsey.”
He shook his head, pausing a few feet from the door of the office. “Look, you asked me what I thought, and I told you the truth. I’ve been at this mine from the moment the first stick of dynamite was lit and the first timbers were put into place. I know these men like I know my own family. There’s a reason why no women have been allowed on the premises, and those reasons aren’t going to change just because you managed to get a contract under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses!”
“It’s pretty obvious that you misled the owners, falsifying your credentials—”
“My credentials are in perfect order!”
“Then falsifying your name. Come on, Dr. Havisham. Admit it. Your Christian name couldn’t possibly be ‘Sumner.’”
Indignation bubbled up in her chest so strongly that Sumner couldn’t prevent the words from spilling free. “For your information, at my christening, I was named Sumner Edmund Havisham. S-u-m-n-e-r. My father wanted his first son to be named after his father. So when I arrived, and my mother died soon thereafter, he was too disheartened to bother changing his mind.”
The words reverberated in the darkness, revealing far more than she’d ever intended. But now that they were uttered, she couldn’t withdraw them.
“Dr. Havisham, I presume.”
The stern voice came from a spot behind her, and when she turned, Sumner found the grim countenance of Ezra Batchwell regarding her from the open door of the office. She recognized his balding pate and dark curly hair from an article called “Entrepreneurs of the American West” in the Christian Observer, the same periodical which had drawn her to this remote place.
“I believe this conversation would be more suited to the privacy of our offices rather than the street, don’t you?”
Just when she’d hoped to impress the men of Bachelor Bottoms with her strength and dignity, she’d been caught hollering in the dark like a fishwife.
She thought she saw Jonah Ramsey’s lips twitch in amusement—and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to stamp her foot in frustration. But that would never do. Not if she hoped to repair the damage she’d already done.
“After you, Miss Havisham,” Jonah drawled, sweeping a hand in front of him to indicate that she should enter first.
“Doctor,” she reminded him.
“Dr. Havisham,” he corrected himself.
But he wasn’t able to completely stifle his amusement at her plight.
It was well into the wee hours of the morning when Jonah stomped the snow off his boots, then let himself into the row house he’d been assigned when the buildings had first been erected.
As superintendent, he’d been given first pick of the living quarters and permission to be the sole occupant. But Jonah had seen no need for privacy or more space than he could handle, so he’d taken one of the smaller houses closest to the mine, then invited Creakle to room with him. The arrangement was practical, since Creakle spent as much time at the office as Jonah did. This way, he and Jonah could carry on their discussions in the off-hours, if they had a mind to do so.
Aware that Creakle would be asleep upstairs, Jonah moved quietly. He poked at the coals in the squat box stove in the corner, noting that Creakle had left a dented pot on the burner. A peek inside and a quick sniff made Jonah smile. Most of the miners had a preference for coffee—the blacker, the better. But Creakle had a fondness for cocoa. Where the man got the precious stuff, Jonah had no idea. Nevertheless, he was grateful that the older man had left him enough for a few cups.
Limping to the table, Jonah lifted a napkin from the tin plate, and found a hunk of bread, a large piece of cheese and slices of cold ham.
The sight of the food caused his stomach to rumble, and Jonah realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Thankfully, Creakle tended to look after him with the devotion of a maiden aunt.
Jonah threw his hat on the table and hung his jacket on the hook by the door. As he made the lamp brighter, he couldn’t remember ever being so tired. His body ached and his hands were raw from digging in the snow—even though Creakle had appeared at the avalanche site to distribute fresh gloves to everyone several times during the day.
Testing the bucket of water left near the stove, Jonah splashed a healthy measure into a basin, plunged his hands in to the wrists, then washed his face. Hissing at the sting of his wind-burned skin, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. Only three hours remained before he was scheduled to return for the morning Devotional where the men would indulge in an hour of worship before descending into the mine. He wasn’t sure if the ache in his back would let him nod off, but he sure meant to try.
His gaze slid to the stairs, knowing that a comfortable feather bed awaited him. But the steps looked like a sheer slope a hundred miles high, so...
He wiped his face off with an old towel, then sat on the edge of an old hickory rocker that had once belonged to his mother. Hissing, he nudged his boots off with his toes. A folded blanket lay on the table nearby. Next to it lay a bottle of liniment and a flannel.
Who needed a wife when Creakle was around?
He moved gingerly, mentally assessing new aches and old wounds. He wiggled his toes, then his feet, then allowed himself to breathe a little easier. Near as he could tell, he had no numbness or tingling other than that caused by the cold.
Safe for another day.
Jonah was about to settle back—even if it meant foregoing the warm cup of cocoa and the plateful of food—when there was a sharp rap at the door.
Now what?
Barring the entire mine collapsing, he wasn’t in the mood for company. But late-night interruptions were part of the job.
Hauling himself to his feet, he padded to the door, whipped it open and offered a curt, “What is it?”
He immediately regretted his harsh tone when he saw Miss Havisham standing on his doorstep, her hand poised to knock again.
“Dr. Havisham,” Jonah drawled. They’d parted company less than an hour earlier, and he would have thought that her pride would still be too dented to warrant a confrontation with Jonah. Yet, here she was, standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour.
She
