Accidental Family

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 cloak 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.

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