by Lisa Bingham
Smalls punched Creakle in the arm, making a soft grunting noise.
His friend grimaced, rubbing the spot. “Knock it off. I’m getting t’ that part.”
Charles leaned forward. “What part, Creakle?”
“Well, there was a couple o’ things strange about those nights we saw her. First, she didn’t have none o’ those Pinkertons with her, so’s we know she was sneakin’ away without ’em seein’. Then, when we happened upon her, she t’weren’t comin’ from the direction of the Dovecote. She was headin’ inta town from the direction of Rock Creek Road.”
Willow looked to Charles, but the news seemed significant to him.
“You’re sure?” Charles said with a frown.
“Sure as I can be. Didn’t you think so, too, Willoughby?”
The gentle giant nodded mournfully.
“Rock Creek Road?” Willow finally asked, when no one seemed inclined to explain.
Charles offered, “It’s not really a road, more a trail that heads north out of the camp. It follows the river for about a mile, then opens into a meadow where there’s an old trapper’s cabin.” His gray eyes seemed to darken to flint. “It’s in the same direction Gideon traced the blood trail.”
* * *
Willow stood on the stoop, her arms wrapped around her body as huge flakes fell around her like ash, coating the stairs, the road, and piling up against the windows.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go alone,” she said. There was a tremor to her voice—and Charles knew it didn’t have anything to do with the cold.
“I’ll be fine.” He finished adjusting the cinch. Then, holding the reins, he climbed the steps to the door one last time.
She looked so small, so sweet, so worried for him that he couldn’t resist tucking one of those fiery tresses of hair behind her ear.
“I’m going to meet Jonah at the mine, see what’s on his mind. Then I’ll ride out to the trapper’s cabin and nose around. I won’t take any more time than necessary.”
“But—”
“I’ve got my revolver and my rifle. I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, need to be careful today. Stay in the house, keep warm and watch over our children.”
Our children.
He wasn’t quite sure why those words had slipped from his mouth. For the past few days, he’d referred to them as “the twins,” “the bairns” or “the wee ones.” But this morning, he found himself claiming them as if they were his own blood. Their own blood.
But that’s how he felt. With each day that passed, this...arrangement seemed more natural to him than breathing. It felt right to come home to the warmth of a helpmate and children. He was comforted in some indescribable way by the sight of wee clothes hanging from the drying cord he’d strung over the range. He loved the feminine frippery that had invaded his home—curtains and lace and Willow’s precious china. And, inevitably, the moment he entered, his gaze would seek out his wife and his bairns.
As if the scene of familial bliss was real.
Willow studied him with worried eyes. “You should wait and take Jonah or Gideon with you.”
He shook his head. “They both have work at the mine to do.”
“Then take someone else!”
“It would take too much explaining.” Unable to resist, he gently grasped her shoulders. “I won’t be at the cabin long—and it’s not that far away. It’s you who needs to be careful. I don’t want you opening the door for anyone other than your friends from the Dovecote, Jonah or Gideon.”
She nodded, but he could feel her shiver beneath his hands. Unable to resist, he drew her into his arms, closing his coat around her shoulders. For several long moments, he merely held her that way, allowing his body heat to sink into hers, absorbing the sensation of...belonging.
Was this what he’d been missing all this time? He’d been so sure, after a miserable childhood in a foundling home and a hardscrabble youth, that he was destined to spend his life alone. He’d even signed up for a job with Batchwell and Bottoms knowing that he would be sealing his fate in that regard.
You never knew what you were missing.
Until now.
Knowing he couldn’t delay any longer, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
For a moment, her eyes fluttered closed—as if she wanted to savor the contact. Then she looked up at him, her eyes blue as a summer sky.
“Be careful,” she murmured.
“I’ll be back by lunchtime.”
He felt her hands, small and delicate, clutch at his waist. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Unable to help himself, he bent again, this time kissing her briefly on the lips. Drawing courage from the flare of wonder he saw in her eyes, he forced himself to back away.
“Make me some cookies?”
“What kind?”
“Oatmeal?”
“Deal.”
Then, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to go at all if he didn’t leave now, he jumped over the steps to the ground and swung onto the horse. He quickly jammed his hat more firmly on his head and turned the mare in the direction of the mine.
When he dared to glance over his shoulder, Willow was still on the stoop watching him.
For some reason, that fact warmed him from within.
* * *
Charles felt unaccountably self-conscious as he entered the mine and made his way down to what had once been tunnel one. There, a shack of sorts had been built to serve as an on-site office.
He was at home here. Unlike the first mine he’d worked in as a boy, the Batchwell Bottoms Silver Mine was primarily cool and dry, smelling of earth and a lingering hint of gunpowder—probably from the blasting that Jonah had been doing in tunnel nine. Here at the entrance, the walls and ceilings were wide, and lined with timber to shore them up. Safety lamps had been set at regular intervals, casting golden puddles in the darkness. Two sets of iron rails ran down the middle of the earthen ramp, stretching side by side until they forked into different tunnels a hundred yards away.
As Charles closed the office door behind him, Jonah looked up from a table lined with schematic drawings.
“Thanks for coming in this morning.”
“Not a problem.”
“Come and look at this.”
Jonah pointed to a drawing of the various passageways branching out from tunnel one. The last corridor, tunnel nine, was little more than a penciled doorway, like a sawed-off branch of an elaborate tree.
“What’s the problem?”
“Getting through that bedrock is the problem.”
It hadn’t been a fortnight since Charles had been in the mine, yet if felt like years. Where once his world had revolved around the job, now it seemed like a secondary concern.
“I thought we were planning on blasting there. I drew up the plans a few days before I resigned.”
Jonah sighed, resting his hands on his hips. “They’ve gone missing. No one has been able to find them since you left.”
“My men should—”
Jonah’s lips twitched. “Your men are refusing to work without you. They’re claiming that it’s not safe for them to set the charges unless you’re there to oversee things.”
The pronouncement took Charles aback. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had staged a protest in the mine.
“I’ll have a word with them, if you want.”
Jonah shook his head. “Nah. I kind of like things the way they are. It can’t hurt for Batchwell to see how invaluable you are to this operation. And your men. But...” He pointed to the map again. “What little progress we’ve been able to make has revealed a thick layer of bedrock, here.” He traced a line with his finger. “And there’s a seam of silver running behind it, here.” He looked up. “Think you can draw up another plan for where to set the dynamite?”
> Charles nodded. “I could do it tonight.”
“Good.” Jonah rolled up the map, secured it with a piece of string, then handed it to Charles. “I’ll put you on the payroll as a consultant.” He drawled the last word with something akin to glee.
“Consultant?” Charles echoed dubiously. “Batchwell will get one look at that and cross my name off the books in record time. You don’t have to pay me, Jonah. I’d be happy to do it. Especially since the original plan went missing.”
Jonah shook his head. “No, I already looked through the company charter. Seems that the mining superintendent, which I happen to be, has the authority to hire a consultant for ‘special projects.’” Jonah gestured to the map. “You’ve got yourself a special project.”
“I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”
“You misunderstand. I’m not just talking about drawing up the schematics. I’m assigning you as special consultant to tunnel nine. It’s your baby. I want you to get it up and running. You’ll be in charge of your men from the blasting gang, and two more crews assigned to clear away the debris.”
For several long moments, Charles wasn’t sure what to think. Only a few days ago, he would have jumped at the opportunity. But now...
He worried about Willow being alone at the house. Opening a tunnel would mean long hours and careful supervision.
“Before you say no, I’ve thought a lot about this. I know you want to stick close to home for the next little while.” Jonah’s eyes glinted with rich specks of green and blue and brown. “So I’ve spoken to Gideon about getting a pair of men stationed outside your house while you’re on shift. He’s shorthanded for the next few days, but he can adjust schedules by the end of the week. In the meantime, I’ve assigned some assistants to help you until you can return to us full-time. They can be your eyes here at the mine, or you can keep them at home to watch over Willow.”
He glanced beyond Charles to where a window looked out over the tunnels, and lifted a hand, beckoning with his fingers. Almost simultaneously, the door to the office flew open and outlined a pair of shapes in a puddle of lamplight: one wizened and small, the other as bulky as a bull.
“Howdy, boss man number two,” Creakle said with a cackle.
Beside him, Smalls offered his best grin and a quick salute.
“What will you be wantin’ us t’ do fer you today?”
* * *
Willow felt as if she were forever being summoned to the door. She’d already had a quick visit from Iona and Lydia. Sumner had sent word that she would be stopping by later in the afternoon. And now there was another knock. She’d been hoping to finish baking the cookies, then finish up the children’s layette gowns before Louise needed her sewing machine back. But with all the interruptions, Willow hadn’t made much progress.
“Who is it?”
“Mrs. Wanlass, ma’am, it’s Creakle and Smalls. Yer husband sent us t’ sit with you till he could get back. We’re to see t’ it that no harm comes t’ you or the babes.”
Willow couldn’t help smiling. Charles had promised to be back by lunchtime, but he’d still sent the pair of men to guard them. In her opinion, he was being completely overprotective of her and the children. Since the rattle had appeared on the doorstep, there’d been no more unsettling activity. Maybe Jenny had been wrong to think that the children were in danger.
“One moment.”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel. As promised, she’d made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies for Charles, and she was just about to put the first sheet in the oven. No doubt Creakle and Smalls could be persuaded to join her for a cup of tea and some refreshments.
Truth be known, she was getting a bit stir-crazy being cooped up in the house. Maybe, just maybe, the two men could watch the babies for a few minutes so that she could take a walk around the block and clear the cobwebs from her mind. She would have to steer clear of the main office, where Batchwell might see her, but...
Setting the cloth on the cupboard, she hurried to the door and slid the bolt free. But when she opened it wide, she stood rooted to the spot, all thoughts of a walk skittering out into the snow.
Both Smalls and Creakle had come to the row house prepared for any eventuality. Smalls wore a bandolier brimming with ammunition. A pair of holsters sported pearl-handled revolvers, and she could see one, two, three knives tucked into his boots. Creakle was similarly attired, sporting one of the largest Bowie knives Willow had ever seen.
The two men stepped into the house and shoved the bolt home. Then they each dragged a chair to the two windows in the keeping room and moved the curtains ever so slightly with the barrels of their revolvers.
“Can I get you anything?” she offered weakly. For the past several hours, she’d managed to talk herself into believing that the worst of the danger was past. But with the two men taking her safety so seriously, she couldn’t help but feel the first pricklings of unease—and she chided herself for growing lax.
“No, ma’am. You just keep on with whatever you were doin’. Me an’ Smalls will take over the watch until the boss man gets home.”
“Boss man?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Wanlass done got his job back—or thereabouts. He’s been promoted and we’ve been assigned to help him.”
Charles had his job back? Her heart leaped at the idea. She’d been so worried when he’d been fired. He must be so relieved to be able to go to work.
But on the heels of that thought came a strange disappointment. If he was heading back to the mine, they would no longer share their days and meals together. Nor would they be able to study their chart of suspects and share theories of what to investigate next. She would be on her own for most of the afternoon—and even though she’d been alone most of her life...
She felt more bereft than she had a right to feel.
Chapter Eleven
Charles carefully maneuvered his horse through the snow, keeping his mount to the portion of the trail that butted up against the mountain. Here, the drifts remained in shade and stayed frozen and firm. The last thing he needed was for his mount to stumble in the loose powder and come up lame.
He’d been riding for several minutes, going slowly, his eyes sweeping the path ahead of him, looking for the slightest sign that Jenny had come this way.
The chances of finding anything were slim. It had snowed several times since the night of her murder, and the winds had been strong. Even now, a veil of flakes fell in front of him, allowing only a few feet of visibility.
Grimacing, Charles hunched deeper into the collar of his coat and jammed his hat more firmly on his head.
If he’d thought things through, he would have waited until the weather cleared. The wind was growing sharper, stronger, driving the snow against his cheeks. Beneath him, his horse grew skittish and kept tossing her head as if to tell Charles that they were going the wrong direction.
“I know, girl. I know,” he murmured, patting the animal on the side of her neck. “We’ll just look inside the cabin and then head for home.”
Home.
For the first time in his life, Charles felt an inner glow at the word. Willow and the twins had definitely done that. They’d taken the cold bachelor’s quarters and made them feel like a haven.
How was such a thing possible? He really didn’t know much more about Willow than he had before they’d married.
No.
That wasn’t quite true. He might not know the exact place of her birth or her favorite flower, but he knew the important things. She was loving and gentle, resourceful and brave. She was the kind of woman that any man would be proud to claim as his own.
And she was his wife.
At least for the time being.
He squinted into the storm until, at long last, Charles could see the dim outline of a structure up ahead. Veering his mount in that direction, he urged the beast
to hurry. If Jenny had left any kind of trail to track, it was buried now. The only way to check out his hunch would be to look inside the building itself.
He waited until the mare had stepped beneath the roof’s overhang, then he swung to the ground, his limbs jolting from the drop. Charles hadn’t realized how cold he’d become. His joints seemed to creak from the low temperatures and his extremities were already growing numb.
Just a few more minutes. Then he could go back.
He looped the reins around the branch of a scrubby pine tree. Then he gazed around him. He wasn’t sure if it was the wind, the snow or the thought that this could have been the last place Jenny had come for shelter, but the spot between his shoulder blades prickled with uneasiness.
He touched a hand to the holster he’d strapped to his hips, then slid the rifle free from its scabbard. His eyes roamed what little of the landscape he could see—the craggy slope of the mountain to the left, the icy gray-blue sheen of the river to the right.
Charles wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He simply felt the overwhelming need to be cautious.
Get in there, look things over, then get out of here.
Slowly, he levered a bullet into position and walked closer to the door.
The old wood was swollen and caked with ice and snow, the drifts on the covered porch extending up past his calves, so Charles was forced to bang his shoulder against the rough panels. Once. Twice. Then the door burst open.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness—and he rued the fact that he hadn’t thought to bring a lantern with him. But after several seconds, he was able to see an old glass lamp on a rickety table. Offering a quick prayer that it had oil, he reached for the iron match holder hung a few feet above. The recess was thick with dust, but there were two matches inside. Hopefully, they weren’t so old that they wouldn’t light.
He rasped the head of one against the holder, and a burst of flame leaped into view. Working quickly, he set his rifle against the wall, lifted the glass chimney and touched the match to the wick.
