Lisa Bingham - Accidental Courtship

Creakle scratched his chin with a stubby finger. “So what do y’ think, boss? Think the man will be on this week’s train?”

As if on cue, a faint whistle broke through the usual din of the mining camp, followed by the distant pant of the locomotive as it struggled to pull its cargo the last few yards of an uphill grade.

“You should have your answer within the next fifteen minutes, Creakle. Think you can hang on until then?”

Creakle considered the idea, his eyelids blinking, the tufts of hair on his balding pate poking out at odd angles until he gave the appearance of a ruminating owl. “Maybe. If’n I ain’t got no other—”

Creakle’s words died the same instant that a muffled boom echoed through the valley. Jonah felt a jolt through the soles of his boots. He threw the files onto the desk, snatched up his hat and coat and ran outside toward the yawning entrance to the mine.

From the corner of his eye, Jonah noticed he wasn’t the only person racing to find the source of the shudder. But even as he did, an uneasiness slid through his veins. Any man worth his salt knew what to expect when there was a “bump” in the mine. But somehow, the vibration that had sent him running hadn’t been quite right.

The other miners had come to the same conclusion. One by one, they stopped in their tracks, their breaths hovering in the frigid winter air.

From his spot a few yards ahead of them, Jonah turned in a slow circle, his eyes narrowed to near slits against the uncomfortable sheen of sunlight bouncing over newly fallen snow. From far away came the eerie whistle of the Union Pacific passenger train. Jonah could see the puffs of steam and soot as the stack of the locomotive emerged from the canyon, a pair of brightly painted passenger cars snaking along behind it.

“What’s going on, boss?” one of the men called out.

Jonah shook his head. “I don’t—”

But his words were drowned out by a loud crack. Then a rumble swelled up through the soles of his feet, vibrating his whole body.

“Would you look at—”

Jonah’s eyes skipped from the mine entrance to the two-story office, the Miners’ Hall, the livery, the company store and beyond to the row houses that were scattered like children’s blocks in front of the steep mountainside, then up, up, past the snowy cornice of Seesaw Point. At that moment, an entire wall of ice separated from the precipice and snow roiled down the slopes like a tidal wave, building up steam as it raced toward the valley.

“Avalanche!” someone shouted just beyond Jonah’s shoulder.

The men dived toward the shelter of the mine, the Miners’ Hall, the main offices.

Jonah instinctively leaped for the cover offered by one of the ore cars. Ignoring the stab of pain in his back, he hunkered low as a cloud of snow and vapor swallowed him whole. Gasping for air, he covered his head and his face while an icy blast of wind swirled around him, kicking up dirt and sleet and pine needles that pelted his cheeks and hands with such force they drew blood.

Then, just as quickly, the noise stopped.

Jonah waited, dragging cold, wet air into his lungs. His senses, keener than they’d been only a few moments earlier, picked out the slightest sounds: a plop of snow, the crack of a branch. A whimper.

For a moment, Jonah found himself lost in a wave of memories.

Thundering cannon.

Distant drums.

And pain, so much pain...

Opening his eyes, he took quick, shallow breaths, forcing the images away and ignoring the searing pain that traced down his spine—an injury forged in battle. Then he grabbed the rim of the ore car and hauled himself to his feet.

Around him, the mining camp looked as if it had come through the back end of a blizzard. The air was heavy with a gray mist, and several inches of ice and snow covered every surface. If it weren’t for the glitter of rocks and the dark green bits of broken evergreens, Jonah could have believed that they’d emerged from a storm.

Whirling, he blinked against the moisture and dust. Mine offices...fine. Mine opening...fine. Miners’ Hall, row houses, blacksmith shop, cook shack...check, check and check. They’d be digging themselves out of a few drifts, but there didn’t appear to be any permanent damage. As long as the timbers had held underground...

From far away, Jonah heard a plaintive, bleating whistle. It wavered, then trailed off completely.

“The train!” Jonah called out, already running toward the livery. “The snow must have pushed it off the tracks! Grab anything you can find—pickaxes, shovels, tools. Creakle!”

The daft man must not have taken cover when the avalanche hit, because he hovered in the office doorway, completely covered in white, bits of ice sparkling from his face and beard. If not for the blinking of his eyes, he could have been a children’s snowman.

“Head into the shaft, and make sure everything’s okay. Let them know that the encampment is fine, but the passenger train may be in trouble.”

Creakle lifted one snow-encased arm to offer a halfhearted salute. “Will do, boss!”

Jonah flung open the doors to the livery, rushing to the far stall where he kept his own dappled gelding. He didn’t bother with a saddle, but slipped the bridle over his mount’s head, then drew him into the center aisle.

As the men streamed in behind him, he gestured to the other stalls. “Harness all those mules. We may need them to pull the carriages out of the drifts. And get a couple of sledges hitched up, as well. God willing, there’ll be plenty of passengers needing a ride back into town.”

Then he was swinging onto the back of his mount and galloping toward the canyon.

* * *

Sumner Havisham blinked against the darkness, willing herself to focus on something—anything—that would reassure her that she was alive.

Dear Heavenly Father...help me...please...

Black dots swirled in front of her eyes and a wave of faintness threatened to swallow her whole, but she forced the dizziness away.

She would not pass out. She would not. She’d learned that lesson long ago, when she’d had a bout of scarlet fever as a girl and had collapsed in the nursery. She could still hear her step-brother’s scornful words.

Only girls get the vapors, Sumner. Only good-for-nothing, silly girls. How will you ever catch a husband if you act like that?

Her hands curled into tight fists, her jaw growing tight.

She hadn’t been a silly girl then, and she didn’t plan on being one now. Nor had she set her sights on marriage. She was a doctor, and she needed to behave like one. Especially when people’s lives might hang in the balance.

Inwardly, she took stock of herself, noting the bumps and bruises, the stinging pains. When she felt sure nothing was broken, she lifted a hand to the sticky wetness trickling down her forehead. Blood seeped from a cut near her hairline, and just below that, she found a lump on her forehead the size of a goose egg.

Go on, cry. Girls always gotta cry cuz they’re weak.

But she wasn’t weak. Never had been. Never would be.

“Ladies? Is everyone okay?”

Silence pressed against her, accompanied by odd creaks and groans. But finally, there was a faint cry.

“Here. I’m here.”

Sumner thought she recognized the voice of Miss Willow Granger, the shy woman who’d sat in the seat behind her. She hadn’t said much on their cross-country journey, but when she had, Sumner had recognized the broad vowels of Manchester’s working class and it had reminded her of home. “Willow?”

“Yes, miss?”

“Are you hurt?”

It was quiet for a moment, then, “No. I don’t think so. But I’m pinned by some fallen trunks.”

Another wave of light-headedness threatened to overtake her, and Sumner squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been so close to her destination! Only that morning, the train had left the fertile farmlands of Utah Territory to thread through the last mountain pass. The grade had become steeper there. They’d followed that course until the canyon had abruptly opened into a narrow valley, and she’d been sure that finally she’d reached Aspen Valley.