by Lisa Bingham
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.”
