Accidental Family

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?”