Make-Believe Marriage

When newborn twins are dropped on Charles Wanlass’s doorstep—along with a note begging him to protect them—he knows he needs help to give them a proper home. The only solution: entering a marriage of convenience with mail-order bride Willow Granger. But soon the handsome pastor longs for their make-believe family to become real...

Willow will do whatever it takes to keep her missing friend’s babies safe. She’s drawn to Charles’s steadfast caring and honesty, but she’s sure she doesn’t have the proper background or courage to ever be a worthy wife or mother. But as danger closes in, she and Charles will risk everything to face down their fears—and turn their temporary home into a lifetime of love.

LISA BINGHAM is the bestselling author of more than thirty historical and contemporary romantic fiction novels. She’s been a teacher for more than thirty years, and has served as a costume designer for theatrical and historical reenactment enthusiasts. Currently she lives in rural northern Utah near her husband’s fourth-generation family farm with her sweetheart and three beautiful children. She loves to hear from her fans at lisabinghamauthor.com or Facebook.com/lisabinghamauthor.

Also By Lisa Bingham

The Bachelors of Aspen Valley

Accidental Courtship

Accidental Family

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Accidental Family

Lisa Bingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08253-2

ACCIDENTAL FAMILY

© 2018 Lisa Bingham

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life of thy vanity, which he hath given thee under the sun, all the days of thy vanity: for that is thy portion in this life, and in thy labour which thou takest under the sun.

—Ecclesiastes 9:9

“We should give the babies names. As their parents...we would have named them.”

Willow set her bowl aside and bent to touch the cheek of the littlest child. “This one is a girl.” She stroked the dark tuft of hair on the other baby.

“And this one is a boy.”

Charles reached out a finger and the little girl reacted instinctively, clutching it in her fist. He made a sound that was half laugh, half gasp of astonishment. “Our own Adam and—”

“Eva,” Willow interrupted. “Her name should be Eva.”

Charles grinned.

Willow had grown so accustomed to seeing Charles looking serious and reserved. She could scarcely credit the way his expression made him seem young and boyish.

Charles touched each of the children on the top of the head. Willow’s eyes pricked with tears. Other than her father, she’d never witnessed a man who was so tender and gentle. Yet strong.

Willow couldn’t account for the stab of disappointment she suddenly felt in her chest. This was a temporary situation. Once they’d found the danger to the children and eliminated it, this entire charade would be over...

Dear Reader,

I hope that you enjoyed Accidental Family, Willow and Charles’s story. The book is a special one to me since I am the mother of three adopted children. Those of us who have found our families through this route have a deep love and gratitude for the birth mothers who have entrusted us with their children. I am so indebted to Melanie, Joy, and LaToya. As an adoptive mother, I know that our Heavenly Father takes great care in guiding all those involved in arranging these special families. I know that my own three babies were all miracles on Earth.

As a little side note, Charles’s character was loosely based on one of my own ancestors, my great-great-grandfather, James Wanlass. Much like Charles, my great-great-grandfather was an infant when he was left at the door of a foundling home wearing clothes too fine for his station. He was then given the name Wanlass because of a nearby windlass. Much like Charles, rumors surrounded his arrival—that his parents died in a carriage accident or that his mother died in childbirth and his father, a ship’s captain, left James at the orphanage, then was lost at sea. James left the orphanage as a teenager to work in the coal mines and then as an iron worker. He became a lay minister soon before emigrating from Scotland to Utah Territory where he became a farmer. It must have been thrilling for a poor orphan from Scotland to claim his own piece of land in the American West.

I love to hear from my readers. If you’d like to get in touch with me, you can reach me at my website, www.lisabinghamauthor.com, or through my social media sites on Facebook, www.Facebook.com/lisabinghamauthor, or on Twitter, @lbinghamauthor.

All my best to you,

Lisa

To my grandparents, whose “storybooks” were tales from their vast genealogical records. The histories of all those family members still provide a font of inspiration to tickle my imagination.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Bible Verse

Introduction

Dear Reader

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Extract

Chapter One

January 13, 1874

Utah Territory

Charles Wanlass waited until the sound of feminine laughter had dissipated into the darkness before stepping into the cold. He paused to ensure that the side door to the Meeting House had snapped into place. Then he hurried toward the miners’ row houses and his own quarters, the very last building on the left.

From somewhere deep in the woods, he heard a woman’s voice call out.

“Willow? Willow, where are you?”

The cry was soon followed by a burst of laughter. Snatches of singing.

Charles couldn’t help smiling. Normally, he and the other men in the Batchwell Bottoms mining community hated January. The merrymaking of Christmas was over, the wind had grown especially bitter and the nights were long and dark. With nothing to break the monotony but work, the days seem endless.

This year, however, the occupants of the little community nicknamed “Bachelor Bottoms” were more than happy to put off spring for as long as possible. Less than a month ago, a freak avalanche had closed off the pass, marooning a trainload of women in the valley.

And none of the miners looked forward to that moment when they would go.

“Willow?”

The cry was fainter this time, the giggling more disjointed.

Charles wondered what could have happened to separate Willow Granger from the rest of the group. She was a shy little thing, so tiny she could fit under his chin. Sober and wide-eyed. He couldn’t imagine what could have caused her to escape the Pinkerton guards who had been tasked with keeping the women away from the miners.

As he stepped inside and threw his hat onto a nearby table, he became aware of several things at once: footsteps running through the snow, a commotion of male voices, shouts from the center of town and cooing.

Or the soft mewling of a cat. Or...

A baby?

In that instant, he became aware of a basket on the floor in front of him. It was heaped with blankets. A note pinned to the top read: “Please, please protect my little ones and keep them as your own. They are in more danger than I can express.”

Crouching, Charles moved the blankets aside, revealing not one, but two cherubic faces.

Tiny. So tiny.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through him like a tidal wave, washing all other thoughts and emotions aside.

Almost simultaneously, he heard footsteps charging into his home. He placed himself between the intruder and the basket. To his surprise, it wasn’t a burly assailant, but one of the mail-order brides.

Willow Granger.

From the moment of their arrival, Willow had been a source of curiosity for Charles. Where the other girls were carefree and chatty—even giggly or silly—Willow stood out. The woman was reserved, seldom speaking in Charles’s presence. She had a mane of curly auburn hair the same bright red-gold as a sunset. Most days, she barely managed to contain it in a thick braid. Unlike the other ladies, her wardrobe seemed limited, a pair of shapeless dresses that obscured her figure—one for every day and one for Sunday best. And she was watchful. He wouldn’t doubt that those pale cornflower-blue eyes saw everything, even the contents of a person’s heart.

She seemed to sense that something was amiss because she peered around him. In an instant, she took in the basket, the babies and then the note. Before he could stop her, she snatched the paper from its mooring and read the words.

“Oh.”

It was a mere puff of sound, but it held a wealth of emotion—shock, concern, dismay.

Unfortunately, neither of them had time to ask each other questions, because a swarm of men were heading toward them—the Pinkertons, and close on their heels a group of miners, including Jonah Ramsey, the superintendent of mines, and Ezra Batchwell, one of the owners. To add to the confusion, the alarm bell near the mine offices began to toll.

To Charles’s utter horror, the babies at his feet chose that moment to rouse from their slumber. They began to cry, softly at first, then louder, until the noise cut through the din and the crowd on his doorstep seemed to freeze in the cold winter night.

But that moment of calm was short-lived, because a deep, booming voice bellowed, “Charles Wanlass, explain yourself!”

* * *

“They’re mine!”

“They’re mine!”

Willow trembled when she realized that she had blurted the words at the same moment that Charles Wanlass had uttered his. In an instant, the lie had been cast, not once, but twice, heightening the veracity of the declarations, but doubling the consequences—because this was Bachelor Bottoms where, in order to get a job, a man had to sign an oath that he would abstain from drinking, smoking, cussing...

And women.

Their claims seemed to shudder through the men assembled outside the door. Willow wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been spoken loud enough for the whole valley to hear. Then a dozen pairs of eyes turned their way, and she withered beneath the stares.

She’d never been good in crowds. Becoming the brunt of anyone’s attention caused her to wilt. Yet here she stood, forced to endure the focus of everyone’s attention.

“What did you two say?”

The growl came from Ezra Batchwell. The owner of the Batchwell Bottoms Mine was a fierce bear of a man, his body stocky and barrel-chested. The fur coat he wore and the beaver hat pulled low over his balding pate helped give him the appearance of some great beast. In her short time at Bachelor Bottoms, Willow had steered clear of him. He had a temper. Especially where women were concerned.

She felt a hand touch the small of her back. When she looked up, she found Charles regarding her with quiet gray eyes. There was something about that look, the steadiness of his gaze, that offered her comfort and strength.

“See to the children,” he murmured. His command was softened by the lilt of his Scottish burr and uttered so lowly that only she could have heard the words.

When she reached out to pull the blankets aside, she realized that she still clutched the note in her hand. Her gaze scanned the words: “Please, please protect my little ones and keep them as your own. They are in more danger than I can express.”

She instantly recognized the loopy script.

No, Jenny, no.

Willow’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t been able to find Jenny for days now. Somehow, the other woman had slipped away from their Pinkerton guards and gone...who knew where?

Why would she leave the safety of the other women and the Dovecote, the dormitory-like building where they stayed? Why would she venture out on her own? If her labor had begun, Jenny would have had everything she needed: warmth, support, even medical help from their very own female doctor, Sumner Havisham Ramsey. The woman had only recently married the mine superintendent. If Jenny had needed an advocate to help smooth things over in the Batchwell Bottoms community, she could have appealed to Sumner.

But she’d been so frightened the last few weeks. So sure that someone meant to hurt her and the baby she carried.

No. Not baby.

Babies.

Willow crumpled the note into a small ball, surreptitiously jamming it into the pocket of her gown. Then she returned her attention to the infants.

Curiously, one of them had fallen back asleep, despite the fact that its sibling piteously squalled. Wrapping the top layer of blankets around the angry child, she lifted it to her chest and then rose again, automatically rocking back and forth as she tried to calm the poor thing.

As soon as she turned, she met the wide-eyed stares, and Willow’s knees began to tremble. Thankfully, before she could sag, Charles’s hand wrapped around her waist and he drew her close to his side, offering her warmth and support. Then, miraculously, the baby grew quiet.

The silence hung thick and dark and ominous, and the longer it continued, the more Willow became aware of the alarm bells in the distance. The last time she’d heard such sustained tolling, there had been a mine accident and dozens of men had been injured.

“Has another tunnel collapsed?” she breathed, looking up at Charles, needing the strength of his gaze. She became inordinately aware of the man’s height, the rawboned planes of his face, the wheat-colored hair that he kept close-cropped at the sides and longer on top.

She felt his fingers tighten at her waist. The sensation was brief, but oh, so welcome.

“What’s happened?” Charles asked, already reaching for his hat and settling it over his brow.

“The tunnels are fine.” This time, the deep voice belonged to Jonah Ramsey, mine superintendent, and even more importantly in Willow’s opinion, Dr. Havisham—no, Dr. Ramsey’s—husband. “We were told there’s been a death. We hoped you’d come with us to check things out. Just in case someone needs some spiritual support.”

The words shivered into the night, seeming to trace a cold finger down Willow’s spine. The men on the steps all began talking at once. Her pulse roared in her ears and her arms tightened around the baby so fiercely that the little one squeaked in protest, then rooted into the blankets again, its eyes closing.

Dread seemed to bloom up from the tips of her toes, rumbling through her extremities, leaving her quaking.

Jenny.

No. Please, Lord. No.

Not Jenny.

She must have spoken her prayer aloud because the commotion stopped again and all eyes turned in her direction—especially those of Ezra Batchwell.

“You know something,” he said accusingly.

“No, I...” Her throat became impossibly tight. “Is it Jenny?”

When Batchwell would have demanded answers, Jonah Ramsey stopped him with a hand on his arm. “What makes you think that one of the women is involved?”

“J-Jenny’s been gone for a few days.”

“Gone!” Batchwell barked, but Jonah moved to stand in front of him.

“What do you mean, Willow?”

“She h-hasn’t been at the Dovecote.” Willow fiercely blinked back the tears that swam into her eyes.

“Why didn’t you let anyone know?”

“I... I—”

Willow shut her lips before she could utter anything more. She and Charles had impetuously laid claim to Jenny’s children. If Willow were to reveal any more of the woman’s confidences that she’d pieced together over the past few weeks...

“Has Jenny been hurt?” Willow tried to control herself, but the last words emerged in a pitch that conveyed her panic.

She saw the way the men exchanged glances. There was a furtive guiltiness to their expressions.

Because they knew.

They knew she was right.

“What happened?” she cried, and then more desperately, “What happened!”

Charles pulled her to him, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Shh.” She felt his hand pass down the length of her braid. And felt safe tucked in his arms. “I’ll go and find out. You stay here.”

She pushed against him, ready to argue. But when his gaze dropped to the baby she cradled next to her chest, he said pointedly, “You stay here and take care of our wee children.”

Willow felt torn, needing to know the truth, now. But she heeded Charles’s unspoken message. Someone had to stay with the twins. Someone who knew that they were in dire need of protection.

“There’s food in the larder, wood in a pile by the fireplace. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Then, to her infinite surprise, he bent to place a soft kiss on her brow, marking her as his own.

“Lock the door behind me,” he whispered to her.

Then he was gone, the latch snapping into place behind him.

* * *

Have you lost your mind?

Charles did his best to push aside the little inner voice that nagged at him for his impulsiveness.

He’d claimed a pair of newborn bairns as his own, and then had kissed Willow Granger to boot. If he weren’t tossed out of the mining camp on his ear within the hour, it would be a miracle.

Even as he inwardly castigated himself for his foolishness, Charles discovered that he didn’t regret his actions.

Which was odd.

He owed a debt to Ezra Batchwell and his business partner, Phineas Boggs. He’d been a teenager when they’d snatched him from utter ruin, and since then, Charles had dedicated his life to repaying them for the faith they’d had in his potential.

Yet he’d lied.

Something he’d promised he would never do again, least of all to them.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

The murmured question came from Jonah Ramsey, who seemed determined to keep pace with him.

Not knowing how to respond, Charles shook his head. His jaw tightened as he worked hard to tamp his emotions deep, deep into his soul. He would sort things out later, after he’d had some time to think, confer with Willow and appeal to God for the strength to appear calm. Maybe then he’d have an answer.

Jonah probably would have pressed him further, but they’d reached the steps of the mining office. Several men stood in the middle of the road, and as Charles wove his way through them, he caught a glimpse of the woman lying on the ground.

Even in the darkness, the prone figure of Jenny Reichmann was easy to recognize.

Willow’s fears had proved to be true.

Charles sank to his knees in the snow, reaching to touch the woman’s cheek. She was cold. Her eyes were partially open, staring sightlessly into the night.

“She’s been murdered,” someone grumbled.

Jonah held up a hand. “None of that, you hear? We don’t know what happened. This could have been a horrible accident. Maybe she was injured and tried to walk to the office to find help. She might not have realized that we were all at evening Devotional.”

Although Jonah’s voice brooked no argument, Charles knew that the rumors would continue until someone discovered the truth. There was nothing else to do during a cold night than think and talk and spin tales.

“What about her baby?” someone murmured.

Charles knew the answer before he shook his head. The mound of her stomach had already begun to gather a skiff of snow. “She’s been gone too long. There’s no saving it.” Even as he said the words, his scalp began to tighten and he remembered the babes in the basket.

Could they have belonged to Jenny?

He racked his brain, trying to remember the last time he’d seen her. As lay pastor, Charles had been allowed to spend time at the Dovecote in order to tend to the spiritual needs of the ladies marooned in Bachelor Bottoms. He briefly remembered that Jenny Reichmann had been different from the other girls. She’d been on her way to meet up with her husband in California before the avalanche. Although she hadn’t been the only pregnant woman on the doomed passenger train, her condition had been the most pronounced. Charles had supposed that was why she’d kept out of sight, secluding herself from almost everyone, preferring to remain in her room. Charles could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her.

“Move, please.”

The voice came from Jonah’s wife, Sumner. As soon as she’d managed to thread her way through the crowd, she came to an abrupt halt. Although Charles knew she’d been trained to keep a poker face while tending the wounded, he didn’t miss the shock that flickered in her eyes. Her gaze lifted, bouncing from Jonah to Charles, then back to her husband.

“We need to take her to the infirmary and away from prying eyes,” she offered in a low voice. Then more loudly, she added, “And will someone please stop ringing that bell?”

Abruptly, the noise halted—but the silence that ensued was worse. The quiet was so thick that Charles was sure he could hear the snowflakes landing on the dead woman’s skin.

Sumner laid a hand on Charles’s sleeve, but he barely felt it until she squeezed more forcefully. “Charles, do you think you could carry her to the infirmary for me? Maybe there, you can say a few words over her.”

He nodded, his throat feeling thick and tight.

“The rest of you go home!” Sumner called out. “And keep your gossiping to yourselves for now. There’s no sense riling up the whole mining camp until we know exactly what happened.”

One by one, the miners began to fade into the darkness, until only Jonah, Charles and Ezra Batchwell remained.

“Jonah, give him some room. It’s been less than a month since we removed the shrapnel near your spine. I don’t want you hurting your back now that it’s on the mend. Charles, if you’re ready.”

Charles slid his hands beneath the still form.

Then he carried his burden into the night.

* * *

Willow glanced up at the ticking clock on the mantel and sighed when the spindly hands marked the passing of another quarter hour.

Since Charles had left, she’d tried to make herself useful. She’d stoked the coals in the fireplace and in his range, and put enough wood on both to chase the chill from the combined kitchen and sitting area. Then, deciding that he would be cold and tired when he came home, she’d made coffee.

Soon, the babies had begun to rouse. Fearing they were hungry, Willow had fretted over how she would feed them. But thankfully, once she’d changed their diapers from a pile of flannel squares she’d found tucked into the corner of the basket, they’d fallen back to sleep.

For now.

How on earth was she going to give credence to the claim of being their mother if she couldn’t feed them herself?

Sitting in the only comfortable chair in the room—a tufted easy chair drawn close to the fireplace—she’d taken turns holding the children.

A boy. And a girl.

The instant she’d cuddled them in her arms, a fierce wave of protectiveness had rushed through her. She’d felt her heart melt at the sight of their tiny fingers.

As the snow spattered against the window, she wondered how long it would be before she was punished for that untruth. Even now, her skin seemed to prickle in foreboding. It had taken only a few fibs at the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls for Willow to learn that the adults in her life would brook no disobedience or dishonor.

God would punish her for the lie.

But she couldn’t find it within her to confess her deceit to Batchwell and Bottoms.

A pounding sound suddenly broke the quiet, and Willow jumped. Immediately, her heart collided against her ribs in time with the banging. Panicked, she set the baby in the basket, covered both wee faces with a blanket and then searched for a place to hide them.

She should have prepared for the worst as soon as she’d locked the door.

“Willow? It’s me.”

It took a moment for her to absorb the words and the low timbre of the voice, but the Scottish lilt slowed the frantic thud of her pulse.

Charles.

She rushed to open the door. After he dodged inside amid a swirl of snow and ice and wind, she slammed the door shut again.

In the firelight, his features looked pinched and pale. Not for the first time, she was struck by the angular lines of his face, the sharp cheekbones, his piercing gray eyes.

“You didn’t light the lamps?”

“I—I didn’t know if you wanted me to use the kerosene.”

He regarded her with open puzzlement, then murmured, “Daft girl. I wouldna leave you here in the dark. Take care of them now while I get out of my coat.”

She hurried to light one of the waxy faggots he kept in a cup on the mantel. Holding her hand over the flame to protect it from the draft, she lit the lamp in the center of the table on what she supposed was the “eating” side of the keeping room. Then, after adjusting the wick, she blew out the taper.

Once again, Charles eyed her curiously. “Do the rest of them. We’ll need to be seeing one another. Given all that’s happened, you and I need to talk.”

At those words, her gaze tangled with his, and she saw in the depth of those kind gray eyes a wealth of sadness.

Without being told, she knew he brought bad news.

Chapter Two

After lighting the faggot again, she stumbled through her task of lighting the lamps. When she’d finished, she couldn’t deny that by chasing the shadows from the corners of the room, the buttery glow had banished some of her fear, as well.

Charles shrugged off his heavy shearling coat. He hung it and his hat on two of the pegs by the door. Then he shook his head, causing droplets of melted snow to fly from his close-cropped hair.

For the first time, Willow allowed herself to study the man intently. He wasn’t what the other girls would consider handsome. His features were too sharp and angular for that. But without his coat, she could see that he was broad-shouldered, and lean—although in Willow’s opinion, he could use a few good meals. Nevertheless, he radiated an aura of strength and dignity.

“How are they?” He gestured to the basket.

“Fine.”

“No problems?”

“No, but...they’ll be needing food soon and...”

Her cheeks flushed with sudden heat. How on earth could she broach with a man the subject of feeding newborns?

Charles didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. As he bent over the basket, his features lost their sharp angles and his expression glowed with wonder.

“I thought about that already. There are some goats in the barn by the livery. As soon as things calm down, I’ll see if I can milk one or bring the animal here. I’ve got a lean-to in the back where it could stay for now.”

He looked up at her then. In the past, she’d always thought his gray eyes were calm and peaceful. In that moment, they pierced her with their intensity.

“The twins aren’t really yours, are they?”

She couldn’t bring herself to lie. Not to him.

Willow shook her head.

“So, they belonged to Jenny?”

She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. She trusted this man for no other reason than Jenny had trusted him.

“I think so.”

“When did she give birth?”

“I don’t know. She disappeared a few days ago, just like I told Mr. Batchwell. I—I wasn’t sure whom to tell.” She shifted uneasily. “After the Devotional, I finally decided to come to you. That’s how I came to be at your house.” Willow gripped her hands together. “Jenny, is she...”

It was his turn to look uncomfortable. He seemed to be searching for the right words. At long last, he said, “I’m so sorry.”

Willow wasn’t sure how it happened. There was a keening cry, the sound of sobbing. Then, as Charles drew her to him, she realized that she had been the one to make the noise.

Unconsciously, she gripped him, her fingers digging into the strength of his shoulders, her cheek pressing into his chest. His arms wrapped around her as she wept for a friend she’d known for only a few short months. She and Jenny had met at the docks in Liverpool and made the journey to America together. By combining their courage, they’d formed a bond that had helped them both complete the voyage.

“What happened, Willow? Do you know where she went?”

Her tears soaked into the homespun linen of his shirt. “No! She’d been upset the past week or so. I tried to get her to talk, to see if I could help, but then...she disappeared. She didn’t tell me she was leaving. Only that—”

The door suddenly burst open. The lamps fluttered and sputtered as Ezra Batchwell stood in the doorway, his features overcome with fury.

“Explain yourself, madam!”

* * *

Charles was glad that he held Willow in his arms because he felt her knees give way. As he tightened his grip on her slender frame, he demanded, “What’s the meaning of this? This is my home. The least you could have done is knocked.”

Willow began to tremble so violently he feared that she might fall to the floor. For the first time, Charles realized how slight she was beneath her all-encompassing gown. She was a tiny thing, yet soft and feminine and smelling inexplicably of violets.

Ezra stepped into the room, allowing Jonah and one of the Pinkertons—Gideon Gault—to follow.

“No. This is my row house, my property, my silver mine! You, of all people, know the rules of this community—and you need to explain yourself this instant. As it is, if the canyon weren’t completely impassable, I’d ride you both out on a rail!”

Charles had worked at the Batchwell Bottoms silver mine long enough to know that Ezra Batchwell was more bluster than substance. He had a short temper and tended to blurt out his frustrations without thinking. His partner, Phineas Bottoms, was calm and methodical, tending to examine a situation from every possible angle before weighing in. Unfortunately, since the mail-order brides had been marooned in the community, Batchwell seemed to regard the women as an open threat—to the point where even Bottoms couldn’t calm him down.

Thankfully, Phineas Bottoms must have been summoned into town, because he wove through the men congregated on the stoop and stepped inside.

“Now, Ezra—”

“Don’t you ‘now, Ezra’ me, Phineas! This man has been carrying on with one of the brides right beneath our very noses! Worse, he’s had a couple of babes by her! And all the while, he’s been claiming to be a man of God and preaching to us each night during evening Devotional. It’s nothing but a tawdry—”

“She’s my wife!”

The words blurted from Charles’s lips before they’d even formed in his head. A shuddering silence descended around the room—one broken only by the whistle of the wind whirling snow into the house.

Willow trembled even more in his arms, but she didn’t speak. Luckily, she’d turned her face toward him. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to hide her shock at his pronouncement.

He squeezed her, imperceptibly, meeting her gaze for a fleeting instant in a way that he hoped reassured her, and then offered, “Willow and I met when you sent me to England to oversee the shipment of the new machinery last spring. We fell in love and married.”

Ezra made a huffing sound that was at once disbelieving and outraged.

How could he make the lie sound more convincing?

“We hadn’t planned on her being marooned here in Bachelor Bottoms.”

Batchwell’s hands clutched his walking stick so that his knuckles gleamed white.

“So, we kept things...secret...”

“And do you have a marriage license to back up your claims?”

Charles was unable to think of a quick enough response.

“As I recall, we were never able to find all of Miss Granger’s baggage,” Jonah Ramsey offered. “If the document was in one of her trunks, we may not find it until spring.”

Charles met his friend’s gaze in surprise, wondering if Jonah knew the truth or if he was merely trying to smooth things over in the most logical means possible.

“And you’ve all got another think coming if you believe I’m going to take their word on the matter.”

“Sir, I—”

Ezra turned to Gideon Gault, stabbing a finger in the air. “Go get that man who married Ramsey. If these two have already been legally wed, it won’t make no never-mind to do it again.”

Charles felt Willow stiffen, so he offered a quick objection. “Now, see here, I don’t think—”

Ezra’s finger pointed in his direction. “Not a word out of you, you hear me? You’re a man of the cloth—or the nearest thing we have hereabouts—and I won’t tolerate a big hullabaloo interfering with the men or the jobs they’re supposed to be doing. More importantly, I refuse to have a scandal on my hands—or even whispers of scandal. Therefore, you’ll be remarried. Within the hour. Until then, you will remain in the Miner’s Hall.” The finger stabbed in Charles’s direction once more. “Ramsey, send for a few women to sit with Miss Granger. And post some guards at the door! I don’t want anybody going in or out until we’ve seen to this matter.”

Batchwell motioned for his retinue to follow him, then stormed toward the door, grumbling, “As if we don’t have enough on our hands.”

Charles resisted, knowing that he had to speak to Willow. He couldn’t let this charade continue. Not if it meant the poor woman would be forced into marriage—to him.

But before he could offer a single word, Gideon Gault was at his side, looking tall and broad and imposing in his dark blue Pinkerton tunic.

“Sorry, Charles. You heard the boss. He’s being high-handed, but it shouldn’t hurt either of you to repeat your vows in his presence.”

Vows they’d never spoken. Vows that would bind them together as man and wife.

He tried to convey a portion of his thoughts to Willow, wanting to reassure her that she could bring this whole thing to a halt, and he’d take the consequences, but her eyes were curiously shuttered. Too late, he realized that the crowd of men had remained and both he and Willow were still the center of attention.

Gideon’s grip on his arm was strong and steady, pulling them apart. But Charles managed to snag Willow’s hand and whisper, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.” Then the men pulled him resolutely into the darkness without even a coat to shield him from the cold.

* * *

Willow shivered in the quiet.

How had this happened?

Her mind worked in endless looping circles—Charles, babies, marriage—until the door burst open and several women dodged inside.

Leading the charge was Lydia Tomlinson, self-proclaimed suffragist. Unlike most of the mail-order brides in their group, she had no plans to marry. Instead, the avalanche had forestalled her plans to host a series of speaking engagements in California.

“Willow, why didn’t you tell us that you were already married?” Lydia asked, as she draped her cape over one of the kitchen chairs.

“I—”

“Now, Lydia, let the girl breathe.” Iona Skye reached to squeeze one of Willow’s hands. “If Charles and Willow saw fit to keep their relationship a secret in order to preserve the man’s job, it’s no business of ours.”

Thankfully, the other women heeded Iona’s words. As the eldest member of the group of stranded females, Iona had been on her way to live with her sister’s family. Because she was a widow woman, the mail-order brides tended to let her take the lead, since Sumner had moved to live with her husband off company property.

“Whatever the circumstances, we have a wedding to prepare—and not much time to do it.” Iona pointed to a pair of women with identical dark eyes and dark curls. “Myra and Miriam, you keep your eyes on the babes while Lydia and I take Willow upstairs to change. Emmarissa and Marie, you take care of decorating the mantel. They can restate their vows in front of the fire, so see what you can do to gussie it up with the extra candles we brought. The rest of you can make up some coffee and find some plates for the cookies left over from the cook shack. You can’t have a wedding without some refreshments.”

Before Willow could insist that there would be no guests—and no real wedding—Lydia and Iona took her hands and drew her up the staircase to the rooms above.

“This will do,” Lydia said, after opening the first door. Inside was one of the mine-issued cots, with a mattress rolled up tightly near the footboard. On the opposite wall was a simple dresser with a mirror and a chair.

“I brought your comb and brush, Willow, and your Sunday-best dress, but...” Lydia pulled the chair into the center of the room. “I wondered if you would like to be married in something...different.”

Willow found herself staring bemusedly at Lydia. “What?”

“Would you like to wear something other than your Sunday-best dress? Since the men haven’t found your second trunk yet, I thought you might like to wear something...brighter.”

Willow’s cheeks flamed. There was no second trunk—there never had been. She’d arrived in America with only two gowns to her name. Her Sunday-best dress was a staid, serviceable black faille, as shapeless and dreary as the dress she wore now. But when she’d announced that she would be leaving the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls, the headmaster had forbidden her to take anything with her that the school had provided. She’d been reduced to supplying her meagre wardrobe from the charity barrels bound for a mission in New Guinea. Unfortunately, the recent donations had been heavily laden with maternity wear.

“I...yes, I...”

Lydia didn’t seem to need any more of an answer than that, because she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Iona gently pushed Willow into the chair and began unwinding her braid.

“You have such beautiful hair,” the older woman murmured, making Willow’s skin prickle with self-consciousness.

Willow shifted uneasily. The headmaster at the Good Shepherd had proclaimed her red tresses a sign of evil and had insisted that she keep them covered at all times with a scarf or bonnet.

Before she quite knew what had happened, Iona had divided the tresses into smaller plaits, which she wound in an intricate design around the crown of her head and in a swirling knot at the nape of her neck. By that time, Lydia had returned with a carpetbag, from which she removed a yellow day dress sprigged with tiny pink roses.

Willow couldn’t prevent the soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her lips as the women stripped off the shapeless garment she’d been doomed to wear for months and replaced it with the fitted cotton gown.

The waist proved too large for Willow and the hem too long. However, Lydia had come prepared. Taking a needle and thread, she artfully tucked up the skirt, drawing the fullness toward the rear in a mock bustle. Then she took a length of pink ribbon from the carpetbag and tied it around Willow’s waist.

“There.”

Both Lydia and Iona stood back to eye their efforts.

“Beautiful,” Iona murmured. “She looks every inch a bride.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed. “Not quite.” She opened the door and called out, “Greta!”

Greta Heigle had traveled to the Territories all the way from Bavaria. A plump, blond-haired woman with pink cheeks and snapping blue eyes, she’d boarded the train without knowing a word of English. After a month marooned with the other mail-order brides, she was beginning to learn how to communicate with hand gestures and a sparse English vocabulary.

Willow heard soft footfalls running up the staircase, then Greta burst inside and gasped, “Die Männer sind hier.”

When the women looked at her blankly, she offered, “Men. Men.” Then she pointed to the floor.

“The men are here?”

“Ja!”

Greta then held out a length of lace, and before Willow could fathom what they meant to do, Lydia and Iona began pinning it to the crown of braids.

“Now she looks like a bride,” Lydia breathed with satisfaction.

Iona took Willow gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.

For a moment, the air whooshed out of Willow’s lungs. She’d spent so much time in staid black school uniforms or charity day gowns that she couldn’t remember when she’d ever worn color. The soft yellow dress made her skin milky, her hair bright as a flame. And the veil...the veil softened the effect even more. She did indeed look like...

Like a bride.

Even more...she looked...

Pretty.

“Schön. Lovely,” Greta murmured. The stout woman drew her close for a bone-crushing hug.

When she drew back, Willow fingered the delicate veil. The lace was soft, fashioned from gossamer silk floss. “I’ll return this as soon as possible.”

Greta’s brow knitted in puzzlement, so Willow mimed the action of unpinning the veil and handing it to her. Greta shook her head. “Nien. Geschenk. Gift.” Then the woman beamed.

Willow’s eyes welled with tears. The piece of hairpin lace must have taken hundreds of hours to complete. The fact that it would now adorn a sham marriage made her inwardly cringe. Nevertheless, she couldn’t dim the joy shining from Greta’s eyes.

“Thank you, Greta. I’ll treasure it always.”

“Miss Granger!”

There was no mistaking the booming voice that reached them from the main room. Ezra Batchwell and his retinue had returned, and he was eager to see that the formalities were finished.

Lydia hugged her as well, then Iona.

“Best wishes,” Lydia said, before backing out of the room.

Iona took a handkerchief from where it had been tucked in her sleeve. Sniffling, she dabbed her eyes. “May this be the first of many happy days,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion. “I always cry at weddings.” Then she hurried from the room, leaving Willow alone.

From below, Willow could hear the deep murmur of male voices combined with a few higher pitched ones. She knew she wouldn’t be given much time to think.

But even as she considered running downstairs, calling the whole thing off and confessing her deceit...

She couldn’t do it.

Not just because the thought of that many eyes turning her way in censure made her quake, but because Jenny had been her friend. Her first real friend. Those babies downstairs were Jenny’s and they were motherless and defenseless.

No. Not defenseless.

They had her.

And they had Charles.

Pinning that thought in her mind, she smoothed a hand over the ribbon at her waist, adjusted the veil around her shoulders, then headed for the door.

* * *

Charles shifted nervously from foot to foot, feeling as if a herd of ants were crawling beneath his skin. At Ramsey’s insistence, he’d taken time at the Hall to wash his face and hands, slick back his hair and don the clean shirt, vest and tie that Gideon had loaned him.

He swallowed against the dryness of his throat, easing a finger beneath the tie, which seemed to be cutting off his ability to breathe. He was sure that Gideon had tied it too tight—probably on purpose, since he’d joked that Charles would soon feel the noose of matrimony closing around his neck for the second time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the two wee bairns being rocked in the arms of the Claussen twins.

Charles knew better than most what would happen to the babes if they weren’t claimed. If Ezra Batchwell had exploded at the idea of having women on the premises, there would be no containing his ire at the thought of a pair of children running about. As soon as the pass cleared, they would be taken to the nearest foundling home. Once there, they could be separated, or worse, live their childhoods in an institution—a fate that Charles had himself endured and wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

No. If Willow was agreeable, he’d see this charade to the end, then sort things out when they’d both had time to plan what was best for the youngsters.

As if she’d heard him, Willow suddenly appeared at the top of the steps.

For a moment, the air left Charles’s lungs. For a month now, he’d caught glimpses of the girl—at the Devotionals, behind the counter of the cook shack, or peeking between the curtains of the Dovecote. He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t paid her much mind.

He regretted that now, because the woman who stepped toward him was beautiful. The soft cotton dress she wore seemed to highlight the fairness of her skin, the dusting of freckles across her brow and cheeks. And that hair...it shone in the lamplight like a blazing sunset.

She moved to stand beside the fireplace, and then turned to face him.

Ignoring Batchwell’s scowl, Charles caught her hand and leaned to whisper next to her ear. “You don’t have to do this.”

Nevertheless, when he met her gaze, those cornflower-blue eyes blazed with determination.

“They need us,” she whispered.

“Enough!” Batchwell barked. “Let’s get this over with.”

Even then, Charles kept hold of Willow’s hand. Despite her bravado, he could feel the chill of her fingertips and the trembling of her extremities. When he repeated his vows, she clung to him even tighter. As she offered her own promises, he thought he heard a quaver in her voice. Then, before Charles could credit how quickly his life had altered course, there was a cheer and someone was pounding him on the back.

“Kiss the girl!” a deep voice shouted, and Charles could have sworn it was Gideon Gault. Knowing that all eyes were upon them, Charles brushed a light kiss over Willow’s lips.

When he drew back, her cheeks were pink with color, and he automatically drew her into the lee of his arm as the women rushed to offer their congratulations.

Soon, his home became noisy with chatter and laughter. For too long, his house had been a sterile, quiet place. He’d learned to endure the silence, but he’d never grown used to it.

However, when Ezra Batchwell pounded his walking stick on the floor, reality came rushing back as the row house became quiet again.

“It’s late and some of you need to be at your shift within a few hours. I think it’s time we all went home.”

There were murmurs of disappointment, but the women rushed to shake Charles’s hand and kiss Willow on the cheek. Then they gathered their wraps and reluctantly headed into the cold. The men followed more slowly, until only Batchwell, Bottoms, Jonah Ramsey and Gideon Gault remained.

Rather than offer his congratulations, Batchwell stomped toward the couple, his dark eyes blazing. “You broke the rules,” he growled. “You knowingly brought a woman to our valley and then lied to us all.”

Charles stiffened. He might not have invited Willow to join him in Bachelor Bottoms, but he had lied to his employers. Since there was no response he could offer at the moment to clarify the situation, he remained silent.

“Get out,” the man rasped through clenched teeth. “You, of all people, are aware of the directives of this mining community and the requirements for employment. I don’t care if there’s a blizzard or a blocked pass, you and your...wife...will get out of this house, out of this valley, out of this town. Immediately!”

Chapter Three

“I resign. From my job, my position as lay preacher, and member of this community!”

Charles couldn’t prevent the words that burst from his lips. It was as if they came from another person—another source.

“And as an outlier to the community, I claim the same ability to shelter in one of the row houses like the other families who were marooned here by the avalanche.”

Ezra Batchwell grew so red-faced that Charles wouldn’t have been surprised if the man’s head exploded.

“How dare you?” Batchwell whispered accusingly. “How dare you treat our rules so frivolously?”

Charles stiffened his shoulders. Batchwell was right. Charles owed the owners everything.

And yet...

He glanced at Willow, who hovered uncertainly near the twins’ basket. Unconsciously, she’d provided a barrier between the babes and Batchwell. Charles took in her wide, startled eyes, and that glorious hair limned by firelight. Behind her skirts, he could see the blankets moving.

Please, please protect my little ones and keep them as your own. They are in more danger than I can express.

Those defenseless babes needed him. Even if it was only temporary.

“As you can see, Mr. Batchwell, I’ve got a family to take care of, and their welfare takes precedence. If that means giving up my job, so be it.”

Batchwell opened his mouth—probably to offer another tirade. Jonah stepped slightly in front of the man, putting a hand to his chest. “You can’t fault a man for focusing on his family.”

Then Phineas added his own two cents. “If you ask me, the boy hasn’t done anything wrong, Ezra. It’s not against the rules to be married here at the Batchwell Bottoms Mine. Half our workforce is married—” he pointed to Jonah “—including our mine superintendent. It’s only against the rules for them to live together on company property. And seeing as how Charles has resigned...well, I don’t see as how you’ve got any right to be carrying on this way.”

A low rumble began in Batchwell’s chest, making it clear that he was ready for a rebuttal. Before he could speak, Phineas limped toward the basket a few feet away and drew aside the blanket so that the two sweet faces were exposed.

“There comes a time in every man’s life when his family has to come first, Ezra. What with the death of that young girl and the storm...seems to me there would be something amiss in Charles if he didn’t decide that he should protect the ones he loves.”

Phineas glanced up then, his shrewd gaze piercing straight into Charles’s soul. Charles prayed the older man hadn’t uncovered the deceit that lay there.

“Far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to use the row house. It’s not like there’s anyone else waiting for it. Once the pass clears, we’ll see what needs to be done.”

Phineas lifted his arms and made a shooing motion. “Now, get out of here. Get! You, too, Ezra. You’re letting in cold air that these babes can ill afford. Even worse, it’s late and dark. Any of those conditions can make a man say things he oughtn’t.” He offered a bitter chortle. “And let’s just say that there’s nothing more that needs to be said until morning. Get!”

The men reluctantly turned and filed from the room. Phineas was the last to leave, poking his wizened head around the edge of the door.

“A good evening to you both. Charles. Mrs. Wanlass. You take good care of those little ones, you hear?”

Charles couldn’t be sure, but for a moment, Phineas’s eyes seemed to twinkle. Then the door snapped shut, and they were left in silence.

Alone.

Together.

There was a calm that fell over the empty row house. Then Willow shifted to adjust the blankets on the babies. Unsure of what to do, he walked to the door and bolted it, locking them in.

Unaccountably, his palms were sweating and he unobtrusively wiped them down the sides of his trousers. Truth be told, he’d never been in any woman’s presence for more than a few minutes, let alone locked in a room with one. He wasn’t sure what he was expected to do. Since he’d never lived in a family setting, he had no history to draw from.

Willow shivered, spurring him into action.

“I’ll throw more wood on the fire and warm things back up.”

She regarded him with wide eyes. “But...shouldn’t you ration your supplies?”

Ration his supplies?

There were plenty of logs next to the hearth and another pile stacked along the wall of the lean-to outside. Even if they managed to burn through the entire collection, thick stands of pine and aspen surrounded Bachelor Bottoms. It would be easy to gather more.

Willow stood wringing her hands, obviously as uncomfortable as he was with their situation, so he offered gently, “There’s plenty out back. I doubt we could burn through it in a month.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

Despite his reassurances, she seemed to regard the extra fuel as an extravagance, and Charles wondered if he’d somehow given her the impression that he couldn’t provide her and the children with basic needs.

But then, they didn’t know anything about one another, did they?

“We don’t want the children to catch a chill.”

“No. No, of course not.”

The fact that he’d put the needs of the babies first seemed to dismiss her fears of wastefulness. Not wanting her to change her mind, Charles hurried to throw two big logs onto the fire, then fussed with them until he had no other option than to face Willow again.

She stood in the same spot, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes wide and unblinking. A bit stunned. But not horrified. He’d been so afraid that he would have offended her with the pack of lies he’d been spinning—or worse, that she would be dismayed at being rushed into a marriage she’d never wanted.

“I, uh... I hope I didn’t upset you with everything...with what I said about...us already meeting and...”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good. Because I didn’t want them—didn’t want anyone—thinking...”

Why was he so tongue-tied with her?

Her brow suddenly knit in consternation. “You shouldn’t have quit your job. Why did you quit your job?”

He strode toward her, then his arms around her. Willow was such a wee thing, fitting perfectly beneath his chin. She shivered and he pulled her closer to the fire.

“I haven’t done anything that can’t be undone eventually.”

She drew back to eye him askance. “Except marrying me.”

There was that.

Thoughts skittered through his brain like water on a hot skillet, but he was finally able to grasp on to one coherent thread.

“We can always get an annulment. Later. When the pass has melted and we’ve figured out how best to protect the children.” He drew back, bending so that she could meet his gaze. “I promise, Willow. I would never force you to do anything you don’t want to do. If you want, I’ll go out there right now and explain the whole thing. No one will ever blame you. All this was my doing from the very beginning.”

He took a step back, reaching for his hat. Before he could grasp anything but air, she stopped him.

“No, Charles! I’m as much to blame. And...” Her eyes grew huge, so blue and beseeching that he was rooted to the spot. “What happened to Jenny?” she whispered.

He wasn’t sure how much he should tell her. The two women had been friends. If anyone had been privy to Jenny’s fears and emotions, it would have been Willow.

“Sit here,” he said, gesturing to the chair by the fire.

When she would have demurred, he said, “I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but... I could use a cuppa, and I’m sure you could, too. And if I don’t get out of this tie...”

He tugged at the string, but the knot only seemed to tighten.

Willow pushed his hands aside. “Here, let me.”

“I think Gideon Gault did this on purpose,” Charles said. “He’s promised never to marry, himself. Something about being raised with a houseful of older sisters.”

The tie suddenly gave way. Charles felt some of the tension in his body rush out as he was finally able to take his first real breath. He quickly released the top button of his shirt and yanked the boiled collar free, instantly feeling more like himself.

Willow’s smile was shy and quick, and he was relieved to see that she didn’t seem to mind that he found the trappings of polite society confining.

When she reached for the pins holding her veil in place, he quickly offered, “Let me help. You don’t want to snag the lace.”

In reality, he was sure that she could perform the task quite well on her own, but he wanted to offer her the same little kindness that she’d given him. It was important to him that she knew he had no intention of lording over her. Granted, he didn’t have much experience with marriage—or even married folk, for that matter. But he’d seen the way that Jonah and Sumner treated one another, as partners and friends, as well as sweethearts. In Charles’s opinion, that seemed the best way for him to handle things.

One by one, he gently removed the metal hairpins. As he did, his fingers brushed against her hair. The tresses were softer than he’d imagined. He’d thought that such curly hair would have a wiry texture, but the strands were silky. He couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like if her hair was unbound. Free from their braids, would the curls be wavy and thick, or would they spring into riotous ringlets?

Before he could even finish the thought, the task was finished, and Willow stepped away.

For a moment, the air shimmered between them—like the stillness right before a spring lightning storm. Then Willow stepped toward the chair, and the energy shifted back to awkwardness.

“I’ll just...” He pointed in the direction of the teapot on the kitchen table. It was surrounded with the remnants of the impromptu wedding—used cups and saucers, half-eaten cookies, a platter with only a few remaining sweets.

Draping the veil over one of the chairs, Charles quickly found two clean mugs on his shelves. He rued the fact that Willow would have to drink her tea from the no-frills cups. She should have something fancy. Refined. But the pretty things that the women had brought with them from the Dovecote had all been used.

“I don’t see any milk. Do you take sugar?”

“Please.”

Again, he had nothing fancy. Merely the shavings from a sugar loaf. But he gave her what he hoped was the right amount. Then, after hooking his finger through the handle of both mugs, he grabbed one of the chairs from the table and positioned it near the fire, then handed Willow her tea.

She sipped the brew, and he took comfort from the fact that she didn’t grimace. For several moments she stared into the flames—long enough that Charles could take a quick gulp from his own mug.

Then she turned to him, her eyes direct, resolved, and a brilliant crystal blue.

“Tell me about Jenny.”

* * *

Willow feared that Charles would try to shield her from what he’d discovered. She’d seen the behavior of enough of the miners from Batchwell Bottoms. Since the men were denied the presence of females in their community, they invented reasons to interact with the women. In doing so, they tended to put them on a pedestal, insisting that they be pampered and sheltered from the slightest discomfort. The men worried that the women found the wind too cold, the nights too dark, the food too limiting.

Willow had lived in the real world far too long to indulge in such fantasies. She’d known cold and darkness and hunger far worse than any she’d encountered here at Bachelor Bottoms, and she had no desire to abandon those lessons for the false security of half-truths.

So when Charles’s gray eyes met hers, she didn’t look away. Instead, she willed him to give her the information she craved.

Because she wouldn’t rest until she knew the truth.

He exhaled slowly. Then bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his mug held loosely in his hands. For a moment, he stared into his tea.

“She was found in the street near the mining offices. It’s not clear if she stumbled there, looking for help, if she fell, or if she...was left there.”

“Left there?” The whisper pushed from Willow’s lips involuntarily.

Charles looked up.

“She could have had an accident.” His words sounded too forced, as if he wanted to convince himself of their veracity.

“But you don’t think so.”

He reluctantly shook his head.

“It looked to me like she’d been struck.” He lifted a hand to the back of his head. “Here...” his palm shifted to his temple “...and here.” He met Willow’s gaze again before saying, “Her skull was crushed.”

“You’re sure someone did this to her? That it wasn’t an accident?”

Charles’s lips narrowed as he thought things through, and she appreciated the way he appeared to be so deliberate. Clearly, he wasn’t a man prone to jumping to conclusions.

“Maybe I could have given that possibility some credence.” His gaze became intense. “If it weren’t for the note we found on the basket.”

“Who could have done this?” Willow whispered.

“Was there anyone who was bothering her?”

Willow shook her head. “Not that I can recall. The first few weeks we were here, she seemed really...happy. I thought it was a little strange, since the avalanche kept her from reuniting with her husband in California. She didn’t complain about being marooned, like the other ladies.”

“Did she have any trouble with one of the other women?”

“No!” Willow vehemently shook her head. “You can’t possibly think that one of the mail-order brides did this.”

“I’m just trying to gather as many facts as I can.”

“Jenny kept to herself. I think she was self-conscious about her pregnancy. She believed herself to be ungainly and...unattractive. She seemed incredibly preoccupied about the loss of her figure. She remained in her room for the most part. It was only after we all moved to the Dovecote that she perked up. She began taking walks in the mornings and afternoons. But with the guards keeping us near the dormitory, she couldn’t go far. She just circled the meadow around the Dovecote. She was always alone...” Willow’s words petered off. “But I can’t remember her having any disagreements with the other women. If anything, they tried their best to draw her out and help her.”

“Did she have any contact with anyone else?”

Willow scoured her brain, trying to remember the smallest details. “Those first days, when there were so many injured...she was in the same room with a few of those who’d suffered broken bones. That would have been one of the porters from the train, Mr. Beamon, and the conductor, Mr. Niederhauser. The rest of them would have been mail-order brides. I don’t think she ever took a shift in the cook shack, so she wouldn’t have met anyone there. The Pinkertons were in and out of the Hall on a regular basis—Jonah’s assistant, Mr. Creakle, and that nice Mr. Smalls. Once we moved to the Dovecote, the guards tried to keep the miners at arm’s length, but that didn’t prevent someone with a good excuse—a load of firewood, a box of supplies from the storehouse, the offer of a book to read—from getting a word with one of the girls. Even so, I don’t remember anyone seeking out Jenny in particular.”

“You said she was happy at first.”

Willow’s brow creased. “Yes. The fact that she would have to stay here for months didn’t seem to even dawn on her. She was eager for her baby to be born, so I thought that maybe she was hoping she could reunite with her husband looking like the same girl he’d left behind in England, rather than being...in the family way.”

Willow felt a tinge of heat seep into her cheeks at being so frank with someone of the opposite sex, but she forced herself to continue. “But after Christmas, her mood changed. She became weepy and emotional. When I tried to find out what was wrong, she said she was tired—tired of being awkward and unattractive. She wanted her baby to come. Then, just before she disappeared, she seemed uneasy and jumpy—almost fearful. What could have happened?” Willow asked aloud. “Who would have done this to her?” Her gaze fell to the basket. “And why was she so sure that the babies were in danger, as well?”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t know. But judging by everything that’s happened, I don’t think we can brush her warning aside.” His gaze dropped to the basket. “Right now, we’ve got to put our heads together and see to the bairns. Then we’ll focus on other matters.”

Such as what happened to Jenny.

A soft sneeze from the direction of the basket caused Charles’s steeliness to disappear from his gaze.

“You said the babies will need milk. Anything else?”

“I, uh...warm water to bathe them, more blankets, perhaps more flannels. Eventually, I’ll need fabric to make layette gowns. They don’t seem to have a change of clothing.”

“Then let’s focus on what we can do for them tonight.” Charles stood and reached for a pail near the stove, then his coat and hat. “I’ll head to the barn for milk. Why don’t you rustle through the larder and see if you can scrape up something for us to eat besides leftover cookies? Tomorrow, I’ll go to the company store and get whatever else we need.”

“But...your job. You won’t have pay coming in...”

He paused in buttoning his coat, then came back to her. Touching her shoulder, he said, “It’s all right, Willow. I have a great deal of credit with the store that I’ve put aside as part of my wages. It’s about time I used some of it.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He traced her cheek—and she couldn’t resist the urge to lean into that caress, ever so slightly. “Right now, we’re in this together. These children need us. And Jenny, God rest her soul, has put them in our care. For now, that’s where we’ll put our focus.”

The words roused her fighting spirit, and Willow was instantly flooded with a fierce determination. “Yes. You’re right. I’ll have something for us to eat by the time you return.”

“Thank you, Willow.”

Tugging his hat securely over his brow, he unlatched the door and stepped outside.

* * *

If possible, the night had grown even colder in the last few hours. Charles hunched deeper into his coat, stamping down the stoop and into the darkness. As he was about to turn the corner, he couldn’t help glancing back at the row house. There in the inky blackness and whirling snow, his windows blazed with a warm, welcoming light. Charles could just make out the flickering shadows caused by the fire and the shape of a woman passing into the kitchen.

A woman.

In his home.

A wife.

No. Not truly a wife—even though they’d exchanged vows.

Turning, he trudged through the ever-deepening snow in the direction of the barn. In the space of an hour or two, he’d crashed through quite a few of the commandments—envy, dishonesty, and now he was about to add stealing to his list since, as a former member of the mining community, he had no real claim to any of the animals or their milk.

But the need to ensure the well-being of the babes—who couldn’t be more than a few days old—seemed to have brushed all his principles aside.

Tomorrow, he could talk to Jonah about paying for the use of a goat—or he could make arrangements with the company store or the cook shack. Then again, the fewer folk who knew about the bairns needing milk, the better. He had no doubts that the Bachelor Bottoms gossip mill would be chewing furiously on the news that Charles Wanlass had married in secret, fathered two children, remarried his sweetheart and resigned from his position. He didn’t need anyone puzzling over why the mother couldn’t feed them herself.

He glanced behind him again. By now, he was out of sight of the row house, but he could see the golden radiance easing into the dark night like a beacon.

And in that instant, quite inexplicably, Charles didn’t feel so alone.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

He started, his hands automatically coming up into fists—a reaction he hadn’t had since he was a boy. When he found Jonah Ramsey watching him from the entrance to the infirmary, Charles quickly dropped his hands.

Ramsey closed the door firmly behind him, twisted a key in the lock, then jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

“Where you headed?”

“The livery.”

Ramsey’s brows rose, but he merely said, “I’m headed that way myself. I’ll keep you company.”

They walked in silence, their boots crunching in the snow, and Charles scrambled for something to say to ease the uneasiness that hung between them. Granted, Charles had never been much of a talker—and he hadn’t spent as much time in his off hours with Jonah Ramsey as Gideon had been prone to do. But the two of them shared a comfortable friendship.

“Are you meeting Sumner at the livery?” Charles asked, for wont of anything else to say.

“Nah. As soon as she looked over Jenny’s body, I sent her home with the sleigh. I knew this storm would only get worse and I wanted her heading to safety as soon as possible. That’s why she wasn’t at the wedding.”

Charles felt the man shoot a glance his way, but he refused to look up.

“I’m sure Sumner will be right disappointed to have missed it. She and Willow are pretty close.”

Charles hadn’t thought about that. It would seem strange that Willow had never confided an affection for him all this time.

“In fact, I’m pretty sure that Sumner told me on more than one occasion that Willow was part of the group of mail-order brides destined for California. As I recall, my wife said something about Willow agreeing to marry a bedridden man with a houseful children.”

Charles had forgotten about that, too. He knew that Jonah was waiting for him to comment, but for the life of him, Charles didn’t know what to say.

This time he couldn’t help meeting Ramsey’s gaze, and by thunder there was a glint in his friend’s eyes, even in the darkness.

“I’m sure Sumner will be relieved to hear that she was mistaken,” Jonah continued when Charles failed to speak. “She was worried that Willow’s arrangement might be less of a marriage and more a lifelong term of servitude.”

They’d both eased to a stop in front of the livery, where a lantern hung by the door offered a small puddle of light. Charles studied his friend hard, wondering if there were hidden meanings to the words being offered. Once again, he wondered if Ramsey somehow suspected the true parentage of the twins. If so, he would know that Charles’s claims of an earlier marriage ceremony in England were false. But if that were the case, he would have called a halt to the vows that had just been exchanged.

Wouldn’t he?

“What brings you out on a night like this, Charles?”

What on earth could he say to that?

“I... I needed to have a word with Smalls.”

Willoughby Smalls oversaw the livery, the mules used in the mine and the other various animals that kept the mining community in milk, meat and even wool. Since Charles often helped him with the blacksmithing, he had a logical reason to talk to the man.

“I thought he should hear about my resignation from me.”

Jonah nodded. “That’s good of you. But I think I saw him head up to Miner’s Hall. He and Creakle were probably thinking of getting their fiddles out and providing a little music. I’m sure they’ll be easy to find.”

The man opened one of the side doors to the stables, then turned at the last moment. “Oh, and Charles...”

Again, Charles could have sworn that Jonah’s dark eyes flashed with amusement.

“While you’re at it, tell Smalls that I’ve given you permission to take one of those goats off his hands. We have more milk than we can handle with those things. And I think I remember my mother saying that goat’s milk was more tolerable to a young child than cow’s milk. You can find out for sure when Sumner comes back to the camp in a day or two. In the meantime, with two babes on her hands, Willow might find a little extra nourishment could come in handy.”

With that, he closed the door with a soft thud.

Leaving Charles more unsettled than ever.

Chapter Four

Charles had been gone for only a few minutes when Willow heard a soft tap at the door. She froze.

“Willow, it’s me.” The voice was distinctly feminine.

Hurrying to the door, Willow drew back the bolt, allowing Lydia to slip inside.

“What are you doing here?”

The other woman grinned. “I was helping to clean up in the cook shack after the evening meal, and I happened to see Charles head to the livery with Jonah Ramsey, so I slipped out the side door.”

“Won’t the Pinkertons realize you’re gone?”

Lydia sniffed, eloquently offering her opinion of the men tasked with being their guards. “I’ll be back before they know I’ve gone. Besides, Gideon Gault has taken the lead tonight, and it won’t hurt for him to be brought down a peg or two.”

Willow didn’t comment on the fact that the head of the mining camp’s Pinkerton unit seemed to rub Lydia the wrong way more than any of the other guards.

“Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t have a chance to talk to you.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied Willow intently. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

“Happy?”

“With Mr. Wanlass. You haven’t been forced into anything against your will, have you?”

“No! I... Mr. Wanlass... Charles and I...” Willow didn’t know what to say to reassure her friend, so she offered weakly, “We’re in love.”

The explanation tasted false on her tongue. Willow didn’t have the slightest idea what “love” even meant. When she’d agreed to marry Mr. Ferron and serve as his helpmate and the mother of his children, she’d known that love had nothing to do with it. The two of them had shared a business agreement, nothing more, nothing less. If she’d ever had any dreams of romance, Willow had pushed them aside and consoled herself with the fact that the marriage of convenience would offer her the one thing she wanted: a family. Or at least the closest thing to a family that she was likely to get.

In that respect, the arrangement with Charles wasn’t much different. Willow was still playing at being a wife and mother. The principal characters had just changed for the time being.

But Lydia was unaware of Willow’s turmoil. The woman grasped her hands, squeezing them.

“I thought so, otherwise I wouldn’t have interfered. It was my idea to bring the dress, the veil.”

Willow’s fingers slid from Lydia’s grip to the pink ribbon at her waist. “Oh, you’ll need your dress back. It will only take a minute to—”

“Stop it. I don’t want it back. It’s a gift. The other dresses that you wore were...”

“Awful,” Willow blurted out.

Lydia laughed. “I honestly thought you were wearing them for religious reasons, or as penance or something.”

“Lydia!”

“Okay, I’m exaggerating. But now that I know you have no objections to colors, I’ve got a few more gowns you can have.”

Willow stiffened.

Lydia must have sensed her concern because she gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Please, don’t say no. My aunts insisted on an entirely new wardrobe for my speaking engagements. I headed for California with thirteen trunks—thirteen!” She grimaced. “Even Mr. Gault had something to say about such excess when the men finally managed to unearth the last of them. I refuse to continue my journey with more than three trunks—four at the most. Consider the new clothing a wedding gift. Most of them have never been worn—and it will take you a month of stitching to alter them to fit, so I’m inconveniently adding to your workload. But it would bring me such pleasure if I knew that they could be of use to you.”

“I...”

“Just say ‘thank you’ and I’ll consider this conversation finished.”

Willow hesitated, but in the end, the temptation proved too much. The yellow dress she wore now was unlike anything she’d ever owned before, and she was discovering that the use of color and delicate fabrics made her feel...pretty.

“Thank you, Lydia.”

Lydia offered a squeak of pleasure and clapped her hands.

“I’ll sort through things tonight and drop by tomorrow with a selection. You don’t have to take anything you don’t like, but I think you’ll have plenty to choose from.”

She was reaching for the doorknob when Willow blurted, “I thought you disapproved of marriage, Lydia. Isn’t that what your speaking engagements are all about?”

Again, Lydia waved a dismissing hand. “My speeches are about females gaining a voice in government, standing up for their own happiness and relieving themselves of the tyranny of male domination. It’s time women refused a subservient role and spoke out against inequality, abuse and the demonizing effects that an excess of hard spirits or gambling can have in any relationship. Just as importantly, men need to see that women are their partners, not their servants. There should be equal respect between the sexes, and an acknowledgment that some women are happiest as wives and mothers. But there are others, like Sumner, who have much to offer the world if they are allowed to pursue their dreams of a career.”

“And what about you, Lydia?”

Her friend grinned. “I am not the marrying kind. I would much rather spread the Female Cause than wear a ring on my finger.” She enfolded Willow in a quick embrace. “But even though I may never be a mother myself, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be around children. So, I’ll give you a day or two to settle in with Charles, then I’ll be slipping away from the Pinkertons anytime I can for some cuddling of those twins, you hear?”

Willow laughed. “I’ll be expecting you.”

Then, with the squeak of the door and a rush of icy wind, Lydia disappeared.

* * *

It took Charles much longer than he’d thought to find Willoughby Smalls, then return to the long, narrow barn where some of the smaller animals were kept when the temperatures were low.

Since Willoughby’s throat had been injured in an accident two years back, the man communicated by scrawling notes on whatever scraps of paper he managed to collect. Charles glanced down at a torn half of a weigh slip. According to Smalls’s notation, he was to take a goat from one of the last enclosures. It needed to have one brown ear and one white. Smalls had assured him that the animal was a good milker and would stay warm enough in the lean-to behind Charles’s house.

“As a newly married man, shouldn’t you be with the little missus?”

Charles grimaced when he saw Gideon Gault watching him from a pile of feed sacks.

“You just about scared the life from me,” Charles groused. He’d been gone from Willow too long. All these interruptions to his original errand were taking up too much time. “What are you doing here?”

“Lydia Tomlinson slipped out of the cook shack. And seeing that you’d left Willow alone, she headed over to your place.”

Charles couldn’t account for the relief he felt, knowing that Willow hadn’t spent all this time by herself.

“Shouldn’t you be hauling her back?” Charles grumbled, slipping the catch to the gate free and stepping into the goat enclosure. Immediately, the animals began shifting and bleating, clearly upset by the change in their routine.

“Not just yet. I don’t want Lydia catching on to the fact that I’ve figured out how she’s been sneaking away from the other guards, now and again.”

“Then shouldn’t you be watching her?” Charles offered.

“Oh, I’ve been doing that, too. Through the knothole in that wall over there. There’s no sense freezing my fingers off just because she’s of a mind to play hooky. Besides, I had another man circle around to the side entrance of your place, just in case.”

Charles stepped into the midst of the milling animals, trying to find a goat with one brown ear and one white one. He’d never realized how many shapes, sizes and colors were possible in goats. There were big ones and little ones, goats with long fur and with closely cropped fur. There were goats with curved horns and some with spikes. But none of them matched Smalls’s description.

“What are you doing, Charles?” Gideon said with a bemused grin.

“I’m looking for a goat. A milking goat.”

“And?”

“And it’s supposed to have one brown ear and one white.”

Gideon searched the herd with his keen gaze and finally pointed to the far corner. “It’s over there. Judging by its udders, it won’t be long before it will need to be milked again.”

“You see a rope anywhere?”

Gideon disappeared for a moment, then returned with a length of heavy twine. “Will this do?”

“Yeah.”

Charles snagged the cord from the Pinkerton, then waded into the sea of goats, keeping his eyes pinned on his target.

“Hey, Charles. You got a good look at that woman’s body, didn’t you?”

Charles felt gooseflesh pebble his skin, but he didn’t pause in his pursuit. “Yeah.”

“Those wounds weren’t an accident.”

He nearly stumbled. Gault hadn’t offered the words as a question.

“No. I didn’t think so, either.”

Chancing a glance at his friend, Charles turned to find Gideon staring at the far wall, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Who would do that to a woman? It’s barbaric.”

Charles gave up on his chase as a cold finger of foreboding trailed down his spine. “Yeah.”

“A person’s got to have a whole lot of anger to do something like that.” Gideon’s thousand-yard stare shifted, and he pinned Charles with a gaze that had the power to burn right through him.

“You take care of your little ones, you hear? And your wife. I’ve already doubled the guards around the brides until we know for sure what happened. But I can’t do a whole lot for you and Willow without attracting Batchwell’s attention. I’m counting on you to see to it that Willow stays indoors as much as possible. When I can, I’ll have some men watching from afar, but it would be best if you both kept close to home as much as you can.” Gault straightened. “You still got that rifle of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Can you shoot?”

“Yes.”

Charles didn’t like to advertise his marksmanship, since he preferred to stay as far away from violence as possible. But he’d trained himself to be an expert shot. A body didn’t come to the Territories with the naive idea that the rules of conduct peculiar to Bachelor Bottoms would extend to everyone. It was best for a man to be prepared.

“You might want to take it out of the cupboard and dust it off.”

“I’ll do that.”

Gideon opened his mouth to say something else, but he must have seen a flutter of movement through the knothole, because he suddenly backed away.

“There she goes again. Good night to you, Charles.”

“’Night, Gideon.”

* * *

As soon as Lydia left, Willow wasted no time. After throwing the bolt home, she hurried to the cupboard, which Charles had referred to as “the larder.”

There weren’t many choices for their meal. She found a few staples—salt, pepper, sugar, flour—a bag of raisins, another of oats, and a crock of honey. Grasping a pot, she filled it halfway with water, then poured in a measure of oats, a pinch of salt and a handful of raisins. A bowl of porridge wasn’t exactly a gourmet delight, but it would be warm and filling and hearty. Just the thing for a cold winter night.

Covering the pot with a plate, Willow made a mental note to send for her trunk as soon as she was able. Unlike most of the other mail-order brides, she hadn’t traveled west with crates full of domestic items to set up housekeeping once she’d married. But she hadn’t come to America completely empty-handed, either. She had a set of pots, some dishcloths, a few precious lengths of fabric and her mother’s Blue Willow china.

How her mother had loved those dishes. There were times when Willow wondered if they were the reason for her own name. They’d been the one thing to survive the host of troubles that had besieged her family: her mother’s death, her father’s accident in the mills and their descent into poverty. When her father had been taken to debtors’ prison, the dishes were meant to be sold. But unbeknownst to Willow, her father had packed them in a trunk and hidden them in one of the caves near their home. It wasn’t until Willow had been sent away to the Good Shepherd Charity School that he’d written to inform her where he’d hidden the china. It was the last letter she’d received before he died. An unwitting dowry for Willow, who had seen becoming a mail-order bride to a widower with ten children as the only means to escape a life of destitution and menial labor. Granted, she would probably be exchanging one form of servitude for another, but at least it would be her choice.

But now, in an impulsive need to help a friend, all of those plans had gone awry. And who knew what would happen once her lie was exposed?

Once again, the spot between her shoulder blades seemed to burn with past punishments, but she pushed the sensation away. Since coming to America, she’d already faced obstacles that she might have once thought impossible. She’d learned to tamp down her fear and focus on the end goal—and things were no different now. She would concentrate on Jenny’s children.

Since dinner was cooking and hot coffee waited in a pot on the stove, she returned to the tufted chair. She drew the basket close to her feet, where it would be warm enough to absorb the heat of the fireplace, but not so near that a stray spark might burn them. Pulling the blanket aside, she studied the two infants.

They were so small, so new. Their faces were still squinched and wrinkled, their little legs drawn tight to their bodies. She would wager that they were only a day old, perhaps two. So fragile.

So helpless.

No. Not helpless. Willow was here to protect them. And so was Charles.

One of the babies began to whimper, its fists balling up and flailing. Offering soft hushing noises, Willow reached to scoop it into her arms, only to discover that the baby was wet—which meant that now its clothes were wet and the blankets, as well. Thankfully, Willow had set the small stack of flannel nappies on a nearby table.

The infant settled somewhat once she had removed its wet clothing and changed its diaper. Her diaper. The smaller baby was a girl. Willow would need to find some dry blankets or cloths. But first...

When the second baby began to fret, Willow changed his diaper, as well.

A boy and a girl.

As she swaddled him beneath the woolen cape beside his sister, Willow blinked back tears. Jenny must have been so proud. How on earth had she managed to deliver them on her own and keep their arrival a secret? She must have been incredibly frightened to have taken such measures—and even more alarmed to have left them behind.

Willow jumped when someone pounded on the door. But the noise was quickly followed by “Willow, it’s me. Charles.”

She hurried to let him in, then closed the door amid a swirl of snow. The weather grew more frightful by the minute. The walls seemed to vibrate from the force of the wind. By the time she was able to set the latch, a skiff of white had coated the floor with icy crystals.

Charles had gone out with one pail, but he’d returned with two.

“I brought the milk and some water for washing.”

She took the buckets and transferred them to the wood range for heating. Then she helped Charles to shrug out of his coat and hat and hang them on the pegs by the door.

“It’s getting pretty fierce out there,” he said, brushing stray snowflakes from his shoulders and stamping his boots to rid them of a layer of ice.

“Sit by the fire.”

“No, I’ll help you with—”

She pulled on his wrist. “Sit. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink, then we’ll worry about the rest.”

The fact that he nodded and sank into the chair gave credence to the effort it must have taken to slog through the drifts.

Willow hurried to scoop a mound of mush into his bowl. She filled a spoon with honey and set it atop the hot mixture. Then she poured coffee into a mug and carried them to Charles.

“Thanks. You were able to find everything you needed?”

“Yes.”

When he didn’t immediately eat, she shifted uncertainly. Had she somehow offended him with the simple fare?

When he spoke, it wasn’t a complaint. Instead, he asked, “Aren’t you going to eat with me?”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. At school, she’d been forbidden to take her own meal until the rest of the adults had finished theirs. Oftentimes, there hadn’t been much left and she’d been forced to go hungry.

“Go on. Get your food. I’ll wait,” he urged. “I suppose we could eat at the table, but the fire feels good. You can pull up that little crate there, and we’ll use it to hold our cups.”

Willow did as she was told, then collected her own food. By that time, Charles had drawn one of the kitchen chairs close to the fire.

“Here, you take the comfortable seat,” he said.

“No. I couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist.”

Reluctantly, she settled on the edge of the tufted chair. After all he’d done, Charles deserved the cushions, in her opinion. But he seemed oblivious to her consternation as he sat.

“Shall I say grace?”

“Please.”

“Dear Lord of all...for these blessings and those that Thou sees fit to send to us, we are truly grateful. Amen.”

“Amen.”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. Willow supposed that the pair of them were so accustomed to being alone, neither knew how to proceed.

Thankfully, Charles broke the quiet by reaching for his bowl.

“Oatmeal. One of my favorites.”

Some of the stiffness left Willow’s frame and she started swirling the honey into the mush with her spoon.

“With raisins, too,” he commented.

She glanced up in sudden concern. Had she made herself too at home with his stores? Were the raisins reserved for some other purpose?

But Charles didn’t look upset. Instead, he took a bite filled with the fruit, then made a soft humming sound and nodded. “It’s good. Really good.”

Willow wilted in relief.

“What? Were you thinking I wouldn’t like it?”

“I—I didn’t know if you were expecting something...fancier.”

He gave a short humph. “I’m well aware of the shortcomings of my larder. And what true Scotsman doesn’t like his oatmeal?” He offered a wink. “Especially with raisins.”

Willow laughed, and the brittleness of the moment was broken.

“How are the wee ones?”

“Fine. I’ve no doubt they’ll rouse soon. Unfortunately, while you were gone, they wet themselves clear through their clothes and their blankets. There were spare diapers, but not much else.”

“We’ll make a list of what they need tonight. The company store opens soon after breakfast is served and the shifts change.”

“Afterward, maybe you could...watch the children while I go to the Dovecote?” she asked hesitantly. When Charles regarded her questioningly, she said, “I’ll need to fetch my clothing. And a trunk with some belongings.”

“If you want to write a note to Sumner or one of the other girls, I’ll hitch up the sleigh and fetch them for you myself. There’s no sense going out in this weather if you don’t have to.”

Other than her father, Willow had never had someone put her comfort first, and the suggestion settled in her chest with a warm glow.

“Thank you. That would be very nice.”

Charles set his empty bowl aside and reached for his cup.

“There’s more oatmeal on the stove.”

“Mmm. Maybe in a minute. Right now, it feels good to sit by the fire.” He took a sip and then stared down at the children. “You’re sure they’re hale and hearty? They seem to sleep a great deal.”

“They’re only a day or two old. All that sleeping is normal for a newborn. Even so, we should probably have Sumner take a look at them.”

“She’ll be at the Dovecote in the next day or so. If she’s there when I collect your things, I’ll ask her to drop by. If not, I’ll leave a message.”

Willow hesitantly said, “We should give them names. As their parents...we would have named them.”

“You’re right.” His expression became solemn in the firelight. “It seems wrong somehow...for us to do the honor. Their mother should have had the chance.”

The soft luffing of the fire filled the silence.

“Did she mention possible names to you?”

Willow shook her head. “I don’t think she anticipated having twins. She rarely spoke about the baby itself, merely...her discomfort with her condition.”

Charles met her gaze, his expression sober and intent. “Then the task falls on us.”

As if understanding that they were the subject of conversation, the infants began to stir. Willow set her bowl aside and bent to touch the cheek of the littlest child.

“This one is a girl.”

She stroked the dark tuft of hair on the other baby.

“And this one is a boy.”

Charles bent closer. “A boy and a girl. Imagine that.” He reached out a finger and the little girl reacted instinctively, clutching it in her fist. Charles half laughed, half gasped in astonishment.

“The first two children born in Bachelor Bottoms.” His lips twitched in a smile. “Our own Adam and—”

“Eva,” Willow interrupted. “Her name should be Eva.”

Charles grinned.

Willow had grown so accustomed to seeing Charles Wanlass—a man the miners had nicknamed “The Bishop”—looking serious and reserved. She could scarcely credit the way that his expression made him seem young and boyish.

“Adam and Eva.”

Charles touched each of the children on the top of the head with his broad palms. Then, before Willow knew what he meant to do, he closed his eyes, saying, “Dear Lord, we are grateful to Thee for these sweet children, little Adam and Eva. We mourn the loss of their mother and pray that, with Thy guidance, these infants will be happy, healthy and free from harm. Amen.”

Willow’s eyes pricked with tears. Other than her father, she’d never witnessed a man who was so tender and gentle.

Yet strong.

When he’d ordered Mr. Batchwell from his home, Charles had made it clear that he would brook no interference with the infants he’d claimed as his own.

Or his wife.

His pretend wife.

Willow couldn’t account for the stab of disappointment she felt in her chest. She thrust the sensation away before she could dwell on it.

She needed to remember that this was a temporary situation. Once they’d found the danger to the children and eliminated it, this entire charade would be over.

Then what?

She would return to the life that awaited her before the avalanche. She had agreed to marry Robert Ferron, a man in his sixties who had lost his first wife to consumption. Mr. Ferron was an invalid himself, having suffered a serious fall from the loft of his barn. He needed a strong, capable woman to care for him and his children. Willow would look after Mr. Ferron until his children had moved away to begin families of their own, and Robert had passed on. Then, as per the agreement of their marriage, Willow would be left a small settlement—enough to tide her over if she lived frugally.

She couldn’t leave such a man in the lurch.

She’d given her word.

So why was she suddenly discontented with the arrangements she’d made months ago?

Her eyes dropped to Charles’s broad hands. Now that his prayer had been uttered, he stroked the downy fluff on the tops of the twins’ heads. The babies seemed to arch against that gentle caress, their eyes fluttering. As Willow absorbed the sight, she felt something in the pit of her stomach twist with an emotion she’d never felt before. One that felt very much like...

Envy.

Chapter Five

Charles glanced up in time to see a montage of emotions flash across Willow’s features: curiosity, joy, sorrow. Then something that looked very much like regret. However, before he could ask what was wrong, the babies at his feet began to whimper.

Within moments, that whimper became full-fledged wails that filled the room.

“What did I do?”

Willow jumped to her feet. “Nothing. I think they need to eat.”

She rushed to the box stove. From one of the open shelves she took a small bowl, which she filled halfway with goat’s milk.

“Rock them for a few minutes while I try to figure out a way to do this.”

Charles scooped both hands beneath the children, lifting them against his chest. The babies were so small, so slight, that it was as if he clutched little more than the fabric of Willow’s cloak. But the cries made it clear that the makeshift blankets were far from empty.

He watched as Willow circled the kitchen, examined the contents of the only hutch against the far wall, then the open shelves. Finally, she seemed to settle on a course of action, taking a half-dozen dishcloths and placing them on the table, then returning to test the milk with her pinky.

“I think this will do. Carry them to the table, please.”

Charles held the twins even more securely to his chest, then rose and joined Willow.

“Sit at the head, there.”

She carried the bowl of milk to the table. Then she took one of the twins from his arms and cradled the child against her.

“I think if we dip the corner of the dishcloth into the milk, then allow it to drip into the babies’ mouths, we can get enough nourishment in their stomachs to tide them over for an hour or two.”

He watched as she proceeded to demonstrate, holding the soaked cloth against Eva’s lips.

At first there was little progress. Eva continued to cry as the milk dribbled into her mouth and down her chin.

Sighing, Willow tucked another cloth around the baby’s neck, then tried again.

The newborn continued to resist her efforts. Enough milk had dribbled into her mouth that the child made odd gurgling cries. Then, miraculously, she swallowed.

In an instant, the cries stopped and the baby blinked up at Willow in surprise. She quickly dunked the cloth in the milk again and returned it to Eva’s mouth. This time, the child sucked on the pointed corner. The moment the milk stopped dripping, Eva began to whimper once more.

Seeing that Willow was having some success, Charles tried the routine himself. Adam was more resistant to the process and it took nearly ten minutes of trying—until Charles feared there was more goat’s milk on Willow’s cloak than in Adam’s mouth. Finally, as his cries grew weary, the baby seemed to realize that the liquid being forced at him might be worth a try. Within seconds, he was latching on to the corner of the cloth.

“It’s working,” Charles murmured.

Willow caught his gaze and he could see the unchecked delight in her expression. Then she laughed, and the sound seemed to shimmer over him like sunshine.

“We did it, Charles. We did it!”

The two of them continued their efforts. At one point, Willow taught Charles how to pause and lightly pat the babies’ backs in case they had air trapped in their tummies. Eva managed to offer a tiny grunt, while Adam closed his eyes and let out a belch worthy of a miner drinking up his share of Mr. Grooper’s home-brewed Fourth of July sarsaparilla.

They returned to the milk-soaked cloths, but it wasn’t long before it became apparent that the children were sated. At least for the time being.

“Do you have any blankets we can use?”

Charles nodded, setting Adam back into the basket. “Give me a minute.”

He hurried up to his bedroom—the only room above stairs that he’d bothered to furnish. Truth be told, there wasn’t much to be found there. A trunk with his belongings, an upended crate with his shaving kit, a nightstand with a lantern, and a narrow bed.

He quickly stripped the mattress of its blankets, then dug into the trunk. Inside, he had a half-dozen precious lengths of Scottish tartan, which he’d brought with him from Aberdeen. Since Charles had no idea of his true parentage, he’d picked the plaids for their colors. He chose one that was a bright cobalt-blue with narrow strips of red and gold, and another that was red and black and green.

After setting the lantern on the floor, Charles piled everything into the crate and then took the steps two at a time back to the main floor.

When he stepped into the great room, he stopped, then stared.

Willow had returned to sit by the fire, where he was sure she’d meant to watch over the children in the basket. In the flickering light, he could see that her head lay against the back of the chair. Her chest lifted and fell in sleep.

She was so beautiful.

Unconventional.

But beautiful.

The firelight limned her auburn hair with molten gold. With everything she’d been through, the plaits were coming unpinned. Her skin was as pale as fine marble, but the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose made her approachable. She still wore the yellow dress she’d donned for their wedding, not that awful black gown.

After holding her in his arms, Charles knew her figure was slim and lithe. And strong. He’d never met a woman who could suffer the gamut of emotions that she’d experienced in a single day and still manage to move forward.

Charles carefully approached, trying his best to remain quiet. He’d never been a graceful man. His upbringing hadn’t included the niceties. Left as he’d been on the steps of the Grottlemeyer Foundling Home at about the same age as the twins, what education he’d received had been an exercise in survival.

Setting the crate down, he used one of the tartans to make a soft nest in the basket, then used the second one to cover the twins. Then, not sure what else he should do, he settled into one of the kitchen chairs.

To watch.

Dear Lord above, is this really how You answer a man’s prayers? So suddenly? So overwhelmingly?

Since the women had come into the valley, Charles had begun spending a few nights a week at the Dovecote, attending to their spiritual needs. Each time he stepped inside the dormitory, he’d been immediately enveloped in their warmth and camaraderie. They plied him with baked goods and enveloped him in chatter and laughter. He’d found their strength and spirituality contagious, which had made him even more aware of the masculine, rough and gruff existence of the mining camp.

Anyone who applied to work at the Batchwell Bottoms Mine did so knowing that it was an all-male environment. Before being hired, a man had to promise to adhere to a strict set of rules. He promised to forgo drinking, gambling, cussing and the company of women.

Many of the men who worked at the mine had been here for years. They’d grown accustomed to hard work and spartan living conditions. But there was no denying that things were beginning to change. The men were congregating in the cook shack and lingering at the Devotionals. They soaked up the softer atmosphere the women inspired whenever they were present.

Then, when they returned to the Dovecote, the camp felt...empty again. The miners congregated in the Hall to play darts or checkers, but their efforts to enjoy themselves seemed forced. Even worse, because Charles had permission to spend time with the women, he’d grown aware of a certain...separation between him and the other men. As if they felt slightly resentful of the way he was able to enjoy something that they’d been forbidden.

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