by Lisa Bingham
“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 cl
oak 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.
They couldn’t know that, to Charles, it was a double-edged sword. Yes, his time with the women was something special. But it seemed to only underscore his solitary lifestyle. Since he’d been serving as lay pastor to the men of the mining community, he’d been given a row house to himself. This allowed him the opportunity for counseling if someone came to him for advice or help. But the nights were long and quiet, his surroundings stark. More often than not, he spent the evening poring over the Scriptures or on his knees, praying that the Lord might illuminate a means for him to banish the source of his...discontent. He’d asked God to help him see what else he should be doing to feel needed. Alive.
In that instant, Charles realized that he’d never felt more alive than he did now.
Was this what he’d been missing? In insisting that he was better off alone, had he closed himself off to the possibilities of something wonderful? Could it be that the scrappy orphan from Aberdeen was discovering that the Lord might have grand plans for his future?
The thought was at once terrifying and liberating. It was as if he’d asked the Lord for a few drops of rain, then had been given a deluge. Even so, he couldn’t completely reconcile the fact that he’d appealed to his Creator for relief from his loneliness, and the Lord had seen fit to give him a wife and two children.
But not really.
The arrangement was temporary.
As soon as the pass was cleared of snow, Willow would ask for an annulment, and then be on her way to another life. And he would be alone again.
His gaze skipped to the basket.
Or would he?
He’d known about the twins for only a short time, but he feared that he was growing as attached to them as any new father. He couldn’t imagine letting them out of his sight, let alone handing them over to the care of someone else.
Nevertheless, it would be madness to consider raising them himself. He was a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. Even worse, his upbringing hadn’t given him any clues on how to raise a family.
But if not him...who?
He looked at Willow again, absorbing how the heat from the fire had pinkened her cheeks. She looked so young, so innocent. She had to be at least ten years his junior. Yet she was already betrothed to another man—one with a houseful of children. Charles doubted that she could take the babies with her.
Did that mean the twins were destined for a foundling home?
Charles had spent enough years in such a loveless existence that he couldn’t bear the thought of Adam and Eva ending up with the same fate.
Willow shifted and a frown came over her brow. The chair couldn’t be very comfortable. She needed to stretch out in a real bed.
He stood and carefully approached. When she didn’t wake, he dared to slide one hand beneath her legs and the other around her shoulders. She made a soft groan, but didn’t rouse when he lifted her against him.
She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. She was such a delicate creature. And all Charles had been able to offer her for supper was oatmeal.
; Tomorrow, he’d go to the company store first thing. He’d stock up on food, blankets and a few lengths of fabric—although his choices would be slim in that area. Then he’d chop more wood, repair a few broken boards on the lean-to walls, head to the Dovecote to collect Willow’s things, summon the doctor to check on the children...
Tomorrow.
Charles liked the sound of the word, the promise it held. In the morning, when the sun rose—if they weren’t plagued by more snow—he would awaken to the presence of a wife and two babies. Granted, they were a borrowed family.
But he’d never had any family before. Borrowed or otherwise.
Unable to help himself, Charles touched his lips to Willow’s hair.
“Until tomorrow,” he whispered. Then he carried her upstairs, laid her down on his bed and covered her with another length of plaid from his trunk. Afterward, he returned to the sitting room, the full weight of his new responsibilities settling over his shoulders. He crossed to a free-standing hutch and grasped his rifle, his cleaning kit and a handful of bullets.
Then he settled into the chair by the fire and began his watch.
* * *
Willow woke with a start at a touch on her shoulder. As her eyes flew wide, she fought to focus. Immediately, she was inundated with the need to protect.
The events of the previous evening came rushing back and she found Charles standing above her.
So tall.
So strong.
So completely out of her realm.
“I’m going to the company store and the Dovecote, then I’ll come back and milk the goat again. Is there anything else you need that isn’t on our list?”
Her brain seemed packed with cotton wool. Finally, she remembered that, during one of the many feedings they’d had with the children during the night, they’d discussed what the babies would need.
“I wrote it down...” She frowned, trying to remember where she’d left the envelope and pencil she’d used. “I’ll come find it for you.”
He opened his mouth, probably to stop her from getting up, but Willow jumped to her feet and hurried downstairs.
