Lisa Bingham - Accidental Courtship

“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.

Chapter Three

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 lowered her hand and shifted uncomfortably.

“Mr. Ramsey. I...uh... I hope you’ll pardon my interrupting your night like this.”

So formal. So... British.

She chafed her hands together, but he was betting it had more to do with nerves than the cold.

When she didn’t speak, he peered behind her and said, “Actually, I think we’ve left night far behind us and we’re well on to morning.”

She grimaced, but didn’t appear inclined to leave. “Be that as it may, what I have to say won’t wait.”

He was beginning to understand why Batchwell and Bottoms had insisted on the “no women” clause. He sighed, holding the door wider. “Then you may as well come in.”

Her lips thinned. Which was a shame.

“I don’t think that would be...appropriate, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Miss—”

She scowled.

“Dr. Havisham,” he corrected himself quickly. “I think we sailed past appropriate hours ago. And I, for one, don’t intend to stand in the cold waiting for a formal invitation. So you can either come in where it’s warm, or you can hold your peace until morning.”

A crease appeared between her brows, but she didn’t move.

“If it will make you feel better, Gus Creakle lives here, as well. He’s as good a chaperone as you’re going to get in these parts, especially in the wee hours. I promise. Neither he, nor I, will bite.”

She finally offered a grudging, “Very well, then.”

He held the door open, allowing her to step inside, then closed it before the winter air could taint the warmth of the kitchen.

“Would you like a cup of cocoa?”

Her brows lifted.

“Creakle has a fondness for the stuff, and he’s left me half a pot.” He hooked a finger through a pair of tin mugs stacked on the open shelf above the dry sink.

She shook her head, but when he poured a healthy measure into one of the cups, he saw the way she breathed deeply of its heady scent.