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.