Accidental Family

by Lisa Bingham

  She still felt guilty for using his bed. Charles had insisted that he would sleep on the cot in the spare bedroom. But as she rushed past where she’d dressed for her wedding only the night before, she could see that the mattress was still tightly rolled against the footboard.

  Maybe he didn’t have linens enough for the bed and the cot. If that was the case, she felt even worse about sleeping in his room. She could have easily taken the chair.

  However, there’d been no talking him out of it. And if she were honest with herself, a day spent helping in the cook shack, then the shock about Jenny, the confrontation with Batchwell, and the rushed wedding ceremony had left her exhausted, and she hadn’t had the strength to put up much of a fight. Tonight would be different.

  Her heart seemed to clatter in time to her footsteps as she realized that, in order to make their charade seem real, she would be spending another night in this house with Charles Wanlass.

  Her husband.

  Annulment or not, the vows they’d said had been real. The signed marriage documents stowed in the hutch attested to that fact.

  Even so, she mustn’t forget that one day those documents would be only a memory.

  She stumbled slightly, and did her best to cover up her unsteadiness by crossing to the table. Hours ago, she’d gathered up the remains of the refreshments, and the bowls and dishcloths from their latest feeding. To her surprise, the scratched surface was covered with tins of oil, stained cloths, brass casings and a fine dusting of gunpowder. When she glanced over her shoulder in confusion, Charles appeared slightly embarrassed.

  “I was checking on my supplies—since I’d be heading to the company store, and all. Then, since I had things out, I decided I might as well clean my weapons. It’s been a while since they’ve been used.”

  Her sweeping gaze took in the revolver on the corner of the cupboard, a shotgun leaning up against the wall next to the fireplace and a rifle propped against the hutch near the door.

  “Has something else happened?” she breathed, almost afraid to ask.

  “No!”

  He tucked his thumbs beneath his suspenders. “No. I happened to run into Gideon Gault last night when I went for the goat. He seems to share my opinion that what happened to Jenny wasn’t an accident.”

  Willow remained quiet.

  Finally, Charles offered, “He’s worried. There’s never been any real violence in Batchwell Bottoms. Now and again, a miner has lost his temper and a few fisticuffs erupted. These petty skirmishes end quickly. But for a murder to occur...”

  “Does he have any idea of who it could be?”

  “Not that he shared with me. Nevertheless, he’s doubled the guards for the women at the Dovecote, just in case.”

  Willow’s eyes bounced back to the weapons. Charles had been preparing for the worst. He’d been intent on protecting her. Her and the children.

  “Do you think all this is necessary?”

  “Until we know who hurt Jenny and why? I’m not willing to take any chances.”

  The statement created a soft warmth in her chest.

  “Do you know how to use a weapon, Willow?”

  She nodded. “Da and I used to hunt for rabbits in the woods outside of town sometimes.”

  “Then I’ll leave the shotgun here with you.”

  She opened her mouth to object. But when she thought of Jenny, then Adam and Eva...

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  “Will you be all right while I’m gone? I can probably drop by the store and the Dovecote in an hour. Two at the most. Then I’ll see to the goat. I ended up leaving it in the main barn last night. I was afraid it would wriggle through a few holes in my lean-to. It shouldn’t take too long to make the repairs. Will that work for you?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure? Because I could come back with supplies and wait a while before going to the dormitory.”

  “I’ll be fine, Charles. We have enough milk left for a couple of feedings. While the children are still asleep, I’ll get a pail heating on the stove so that I can wash the dishcloths and launder the babies’ blankets and diapers. Is there somewhere that I can hang them?”

  Charles grimaced. “I’ve always taken my own things to the company laundry. Where’s that paper we made up last night? Add string and some pegs to it, and I’ll fetch them from the store, as well.”

  Willow found the tattered envelope and stubby pencil on the cupboard next to the dry sink. But when she returned to the table and settled into one of the chairs, she hesitated.

  Already, they’d made a lengthy list. As she reread the notations, Willow felt heat seep up her neck.

  She’d been six when her mother and two older brothers had died of influenza. Since the loss of income from their jobs had been a blow to their family, Willow had joined her father in the woolen mills. At the time, her tiny fingers had proved a valuable commodity, since she could rethread the looms with ease. Nevertheless, it had meant she had little to no schooling until her father’s death, when the vicar and his wife had taken pity on her and had arranged for her to go to the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls. She hadn’t learned to read and write until she was nearly twelve. Looking down at her careful printing, she prayed that Charles wouldn’t know at a glance that her education was rudimentary.

  Rereading the words she’d written the night before, Willow wilted beneath another wave of shame. She had only a few coins left from her nest egg. Even once she’d retrieved her belongings, she wouldn’t be able to help Charles pay for much, and the fact merely added to her guilt. She hated to be beholden to anyone—and she was already indebted to Charles Wanlass in more ways than she could count. It galled her that she couldn’t buy an equal share of the goods. The night before, she’d tried her best to cross out some of the items, but Charles had insisted he had credit at the store.

  “If you could wait until we gathered my things...” she said softly. She had five dollars at the most. She’d done her best to save every penny, but since she’d anticipated ending her journey in California, where Mr. Ferron would have met her at the station, she hadn’t been too worried.

  Until now.

  Charles shook his head. “No, Willow. I told you last night that I’d take care of everything.”

  “But you quit your job,” she whispered.

  He snorted. “So what? I’ve lived simply for years, put plenty aside. There’s more than enough to tide us through the winter. Besides, I have a healthy credit at the company store—and I can’t take it with me once I go. So I’ve got to spend it now, while it can do us both some good.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to shoulder all of the responsibilities for the children’s welfare on your own.”

  She scrambled to think of a way she could offer more help. But she had nothing to sell. Nothing but her mother’s china. Maybe one of the women at the Dovecote would be willing to buy it.

  Before she could even suggest such a thing, Charles sank into the chair opposite her and then reached across the table to enclose her hand in his own sure grip.

  “I’m not doing anything on my own. Don’t you see? We’re partners, you and I. We each have our own strengths and specialties. I have the ability to get the supplies we need. But, let’s face it, you have all the skills to put them to work. You’ll be stitching clothes for the children, making more diapers, cleaning, cooking and setting things to rights. I’ll help in whatever way I can, but beyond setting my sights on washing a few dishes, milking a goat or burning a steak, I feel like a fish out of water in all this. If anyone’s beholden in this arrangement, it’s me.”

  Unaccountably, Willow’s thoughts slipped back to the conversation that she’d had with Lydia the night before, to the way the woman had insisted that the best marriages were a partnership. Maybe Charles was right. Maybe it wasn’t c
harity to accept the temporal goods that he was willing to purchase, if she would be offering her own time and talents, as well.

  Finally, she gave a short nod. “Thank you, Charles.”

  He squeezed her hand. “No. Thank you. I don’t know why Jenny left the twins with me. But if I’d been forced to take care of them by myself...” He offered Willow a crooked grin—one that lightened his usually sober features in a way she never would have imagined during her earlier encounters with Bachelor Bottoms’s lay pastor.

  As if he’d suddenly become aware of the way their hands were still linked, Charles let her go and sprang to his feet, so quickly that the chair skidded noisily across the floor.

  “Don’t forget the cord and pegs,” he said gruffly, pointing to the list.

  She obediently added the items.

  “Check through things again, just to make sure. Once I get back, I’ll stick close to home.” He opened his mouth, shut it and then offered, “To help.”

  She pretended to read over the list again, even though she found it impossible to concentrate on the words.

  “It’s fine.”

  “And you’ve got another note for Sumner or one of the other women at the Dovecote? Telling them what you need?”

  “Yes. I put that letter inside the envelope.”

  “Good.” He shifted uneasily before saying, “You don’t have to worry about the laundry just yet, you know. You could get some more sleep...”

  This time, it was her turn to jump to her feet. In a rush, she became aware of her rumpled yellow gown—and her hair! The plaits had come loose and were beginning to unravel. Since she’d slept completely clothed, she probably looked like a cat dragged through a knothole backward.

  But Charles hadn’t seen fit to comment. Instead, he continued to watch her, his eyes quiet and curiously intent.

  “No, I... I’d like to get a few things done.” When he remained quiet, she quickly added, “And it would probably be best if I remain alert.”

  At that, the fierce protectiveness returned to his gaze, startling her with its intensity. She’d seen that look before, when he’d held the children or rocked them back to sleep. But she couldn’t account for the way he directed it toward her.

  Charles was still watching her intently. Then he murmured, “Even so, try to get a little more rest. The babes are sleeping soundly, but they won’t stay that way for much longer. I’ll be back as soon as I can gather your things.”

  Willow nodded, knowing that there weren’t many things to gather. Her clothing and personal belongings could fit into a single carpetbag. Her only trunk held her precious Blue Willow dishes.

  He lifted his hand, and her breath caught when it hovered in the air, as if he meant to stroke her cheek. After a moment, he reached for the revolver instead, shoved it into the back of his trousers, then shrugged into his coat and settled his hat over his hair. She saw the way he glanced toward the basket near the fireplace.

  “Throw the latch in place behind me, then you can see to the bairns.”

  Chapter Six

  Charles took the steps outside two at a time, then grasped the shovel propped against the lean-to. In a matter of minutes, he managed to clear the stoop, the boardwalk in front of the house and a path to the lean-to. After a soft word to the goat inside, a scoop of feed, and breaking the ice on the animal’s water, he left the shovel inside the shelter and secured the door. Once he returned, he would repair a few broken boards so that the enclosure would retain as much heat as possible.

  As soon as he turned, he hesitated. His gaze scoured the snow drifted up against the house.

  When he’d milked the goat the night before, the wind-driven piles had been untouched and sculpted by the storm. This morning, however, he could see that something had disturbed the freshly fallen snow.

  He moved closer, crouching to look at the impressions more closely, then used his glove-covered hand to push the fresher powder aside. There, the lower layers of sleet and slush had frozen, revealing the impression of a boot print.

  Charles frowned. The mark wasn’t entirely clear. The heel was distinct, but the rest was incomplete. Unfortunately, it was impossible to tell much in the way of size or detail, but Charles couldn’t push his uneasiness aside.

  Granted, there could be plenty of reasons for a boot print to be found in the snow next to his house, close to the window of the main keeping room. There were hundreds of miners at Bachelor Bottoms, and with a storm blowing, it wasn’t uncommon for a man to walk between the row houses to avoid as much of the wind as possible. Judging by the amount of snow deposited on top, the print had probably been made late at night. It could have been someone walking home from the Hall. Or a miner leaving his shift early to retrieve something from his home.

  Or...there could have been someone watching them last night.

  His gaze flew to the window a few feet away. From here, he had a clear shot of the kitchen table and chairs. It wouldn’t have been at all difficult for someone to stand here in the darkness, watching them as they fed the twins.

  Charles circled the house, looking for other telltale marks. If a miner had been on his way home—and had paused for a moment to catch a peek of the twins—there would be more prints heading on to the other houses. However, he could find no evidence of anything else being disturbed.

  He backed away, hurrying in the direction of the store. He needed to gather supplies as soon as possible—chief among them, some fabric that could be used to cover the windows. And more ammunition for his revolver.

  * * *

  As soon as she’d flung the bolt in place, Willow shot a quick glance toward the children who slept in their basket near the fireplace. Then, she ran upstairs, knowing that she wouldn’t have much time to tend to her ablutions.

  She poured icy water from the pitcher into the bowl in Charles’s room. Meeting her reflection in the mirror, she squeaked in horror when she realized the extent of repair needed to her hair. She looked like Medusa come to life.

  She quickly washed her face, hands and neck, ruing the fact that she had no soap and cloth of her own—and somehow, using Charles’s seemed far too...intimate. Seeing no other alternative, she unwound the plaits from her wedding coiffure and used his comb to get rid of the worst of the snarls. Then she wound her hair into two braids, which she crisscrossed over the top of her head, fastened in place with hairpins, then folded into a knot at the back of her head.

  She was just finishing when she heard one of the babies beginning to snuffle. It would be time to feed them again.

  She charged downstairs again, stoked the range and placed the last of the goat’s milk in a pan on one of the burners.

  She was just collecting a set of dishcloths when she heard a soft rap on the door.

  Willow whirled, peering that way as if she could see through the boards. It was far too soon for Charles to have returned with everything they needed.

  “Willow, it’s Lydia!”

  She rushed to let the woman in—only to discover at least a dozen more women waiting outside in the cold.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Lydia said, as she hurried in. “We brought you some breakfast from the cook shack. We figured you wouldn’t want to be taking the babies outside in this weather.”

  “And we knew you’d be needing some meals on hand, so we brought you provisions,” Iona offered, setting a large covered basket on the table.

  Behind them, Myra and Miriam struggled to carry in a trunk.

  “Here’s your dishes.”

  “And we found a satchel to carry your clothing and personal things.”

  Behind the Claussen twins were other inhabitants of the Dovecote, each carrying something else to contribute.

  Emmarissa Elliot and Marie Rousseau placed packages wrapped in brown paper on a nearby chair.

  “We raided the laundry for extra t
oweling and face flannels.”

  “And here are a few larger pots and pans for melting snow, or washing and bathing.”

  Greta entered, giggling. “Cookies!” she exclaimed, brandishing a large tin. “More cookies.”

  Behind her, Stefania Nicos gave an answering chortle. “Because a man can always be influenced with sweets.”

  The last two women struggled to bring in a hip bath.

  “Where do you want this?” Millie Kauffman asked, panting.

  When all eyes turned in her direction, Willow finally suggested, “Upstairs in the spare room?”

  As the girls carried the tub upstairs, Lydia and Iona scooped the twins from their basket. Other women were already gathering pails of snow from the drifts outside. By the time they had placed them on the range and poked the coals into a raging inferno, the door opened to admit their Pinkerton guards, who carried a trunk larger than any Willow had ever seen.

  “Where do you want the dresses, Willow?” Lydia asked.

  Willow hesitated. She hadn’t explored the house enough to know if there was a wardrobe or dresser large enough to store that many items of clothing. However, before she could speak, Lydia waved the question aside. “Put the trunk in the spare room, as well. She can sort through everything later, after she’s had time to take a nice, long soak.”

  Before Willow quite knew what had occurred, the female army was already hard at work. Although Charles’s home was fairly neat and tidy, they attacked it with the brooms and mops they’d brought with them. Soon the floors gleamed and the counters shone. Then the women eliminated the smallest speck of dust and polished the wooden surfaces with enough beeswax to make the place smell like a hive.

  At long last, when they’d cleaned the house to their satisfaction, Myra and Miriam used scissors to apply a decorative edging to lengths of brown butcher paper. Then they lined Charles’s open shelves and began unpacking Willow’s china, arranging the pieces in a way that was both decorative and functional.

  “You’ve done enough to help us,” Iona said, shooing Willow toward the staircase. “We can manage the little niceties on our own and take care of the children. You go upstairs and have a hot bath. Everything’s been laid out for you.”