Accidental Family

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.”

Willow found herself staring bemusedly at Lydia. “What?”

“Would you like to wear something other than your Sunday-best dress? Since the men haven’t found your second trunk yet, I thought you might like to wear something...brighter.”

Willow’s cheeks flamed. There was no second trunk—there never had been. She’d arrived in America with only two gowns to her name. Her Sunday-best dress was a staid, serviceable black faille, as shapeless and dreary as the dress she wore now. But when she’d announced that she would be leaving the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls, the headmaster had forbidden her to take anything with her that the school had provided. She’d been reduced to supplying her meagre wardrobe from the charity barrels bound for a mission in New Guinea. Unfortunately, the recent donations had been heavily laden with maternity wear.

“I...yes, I...”

Lydia didn’t seem to need any more of an answer than that, because she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Iona gently pushed Willow into the chair and began unwinding her braid.

“You have such beautiful hair,” the older woman murmured, making Willow’s skin prickle with self-consciousness.

Willow shifted uneasily. The headmaster at the Good Shepherd had proclaimed her red tresses a sign of evil and had insisted that she keep them covered at all times with a scarf or bonnet.

Before she quite knew what had happened, Iona had divided the tresses into smaller plaits, which she wound in an intricate design around the crown of her head and in a swirling knot at the nape of her neck. By that time, Lydia had returned with a carpetbag, from which she removed a yellow day dress sprigged with tiny pink roses.

Willow couldn’t prevent the soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her lips as the women stripped off the shapeless garment she’d been doomed to wear for months and replaced it with the fitted cotton gown.

The waist proved too large for Willow and the hem too long. However, Lydia had come prepared. Taking a needle and thread, she artfully tucked up the skirt, drawing the fullness toward the rear in a mock bustle. Then she took a length of pink ribbon from the carpetbag and tied it around Willow’s waist.

“There.”

Both Lydia and Iona stood back to eye their efforts.

“Beautiful,” Iona murmured. “She looks every inch a bride.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed. “Not quite.” She opened the door and called out, “Greta!”

Greta Heigle had traveled to the Territories all the way from Bavaria. A plump, blond-haired woman with pink cheeks and snapping blue eyes, she’d boarded the train without knowing a word of English. After a month marooned with the other mail-order brides, she was beginning to learn how to communicate with hand gestures and a sparse English vocabulary.

Willow heard soft footfalls running up the staircase, then Greta burst inside and gasped, “Die Männer sind hier.”

When the women looked at her blankly, she offered, “Men. Men.” Then she pointed to the floor.

“The men are here?”

“Ja!”

Greta then held out a length of lace, and before Willow could fathom what they meant to do, Lydia and Iona began pinning it to the crown of braids.

“Now she looks like a bride,” Lydia breathed with satisfaction.

Iona took Willow gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.

For a moment, the air whooshed out of Willow’s lungs. She’d spent so much time in staid black school uniforms or charity day gowns that she couldn’t remember when she’d ever worn color. The soft yellow dress made her skin milky, her hair bright as a flame. And the veil...the veil softened the effect even more. She did indeed look like...

Like a bride.

Even more...she looked...

Pretty.

“Schön. Lovely,” Greta murmured. The stout woman drew her close for a bone-crushing hug.

When she drew back, Willow fingered the delicate veil. The lace was soft, fashioned from gossamer silk floss. “I’ll return this as soon as possible.”

Greta’s brow knitted in puzzlement, so Willow mimed the action of unpinning the veil and handing it to her. Greta shook her head. “Nien. Geschenk. Gift.” Then the woman beamed.

Willow’s eyes welled with tears. The piece of hairpin lace must have taken hundreds of hours to complete. The fact that it would now adorn a sham marriage made her inwardly cringe. Nevertheless, she couldn’t dim the joy shining from Greta’s eyes.

“Thank you, Greta. I’ll treasure it always.”

“Miss Granger!”

There was no mistaking the booming voice that reached them from the main room. Ezra Batchwell and his retinue had returned, and he was eager to see that the formalities were finished.

Lydia hugged her as well, then Iona.

“Best wishes,” Lydia said, before backing out of the room.

Iona took a handkerchief from where it had been tucked in her sleeve. Sniffling, she dabbed her eyes. “May this be the first of many happy days,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion. “I always cry at weddings.” Then she hurried from the room, leaving Willow alone.

From below, Willow could hear the deep murmur of male voices combined with a few higher pitched ones. She knew she wouldn’t be given much time to think.

But even as she considered running downstairs, calling the whole thing off and confessing her deceit...

She couldn’t do it.

Not just because the thought of that many eyes turning her way in censure made her quake, but because Jenny had been her friend. Her first real friend. Those babies downstairs were Jenny’s and they were motherless and defenseless.

No. Not defenseless.

They had her.

And they had Charles.

Pinning that thought in her mind, she smoothed a hand over the ribbon at her waist, adjusted the veil around her shoulders, then headed for the door.

* * *

Charles shifted nervously from foot to foot, feeling as if a herd of ants were crawling beneath his skin. At Ramsey’s insistence, he’d taken time at the Hall to wash his face and hands, slick back his hair and don the clean shirt, vest and tie that Gideon had loaned him.

He swallowed against the dryness of his throat, easing a finger beneath the tie, which seemed to be cutting off his ability to breathe. He was sure that Gideon had tied it too tight—probably on purpose, since he’d joked that Charles would soon feel the noose of matrimony closing around his neck for the second time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the two wee bairns being rocked in the arms of the Claussen twins.

Charles knew better than most what would happen to the babes if they weren’t claimed. If Ezra Batchwell had exploded at the idea of having women on the premises, there would be no containing his ire at the thought of a pair of children running about. As soon as the pass cleared, they would be taken to the nearest foundling home. Once there, they could be separated, or worse, live their childhoods in an institution—a fate that Charles had himself endured and wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

No. If Willow was agreeable, he’d see this charade to the end, then sort things out when they’d both had time to plan what was best for the youngsters.

As if she’d heard him, Willow suddenly appeared at the top of the steps.

For a moment, the air left Charles’s lungs. For a month now, he’d caught glimpses of the girl—at the Devotionals, behind the counter of the cook shack, or peeking between the curtains of the Dovecote. He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t paid her much mind.

He regretted that now, because the woman who stepped toward him was beautiful. The soft cotton dress she wore seemed to highlight the fairness of her skin, the dusting of freckles across her brow and cheeks. And that hair...it shone in the lamplight like a blazing sunset.

She moved to stand beside the fireplace, and then turned to face him.

Ignoring Batchwell’s scowl, Charles caught her hand and leaned to whisper next to her ear. “You don’t have to do this.”

Nevertheless, when he met her gaze, those cornflower-blue eyes blazed with determination.

“They need us,” she whispered.

“Enough!” Batchwell barked. “Let’s get this over with.”