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.
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