furrowed in thought.
“Who would do that to a woman? It’s barbaric.”
Charles gave up on his chase as a cold finger of foreboding trailed down his spine. “Yeah.”
“A person’s got to have a whole lot of anger to do something like that.” Gideon’s thousand-yard stare shifted, and he pinned Charles with a gaze that had the power to burn right through him.
“You take care of your little ones, you hear? And your wife. I’ve already doubled the guards around the brides until we know for sure what happened. But I can’t do a whole lot for you and Willow without attracting Batchwell’s attention. I’m counting on you to see to it that Willow stays indoors as much as possible. When I can, I’ll have some men watching from afar, but it would be best if you both kept close to home as much as you can.” Gault straightened. “You still got that rifle of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Yes.”
Charles didn’t like to advertise his marksmanship, since he preferred to stay as far away from violence as possible. But he’d trained himself to be an expert shot. A body didn’t come to the Territories with the naive idea that the rules of conduct peculiar to Bachelor Bottoms would extend to everyone. It was best for a man to be prepared.
“You might want to take it out of the cupboard and dust it off.”
“I’ll do that.”
Gideon opened his mouth to say something else, but he must have seen a flutter of movement through the knothole, because he suddenly backed away.
“There she goes again. Good night to you, Charles.”
“’Night, Gideon.”
* * *
As soon as Lydia left, Willow wasted no time. After throwing the bolt home, she hurried to the cupboard, which Charles had referred to as “the larder.”
There weren’t many choices for their meal. She found a few staples—salt, pepper, sugar, flour—a bag of raisins, another of oats, and a crock of honey. Grasping a pot, she filled it halfway with water, then poured in a measure of oats, a pinch of salt and a handful of raisins. A bowl of porridge wasn’t exactly a gourmet delight, but it would be warm and filling and hearty. Just the thing for a cold winter night.
Covering the pot with a plate, Willow made a mental note to send for her trunk as soon as she was able. Unlike most of the other mail-order brides, she hadn’t traveled west with crates full of domestic items to set up housekeeping once she’d married. But she hadn’t come to America completely empty-handed, either. She had a set of pots, some dishcloths, a few precious lengths of fabric and her mother’s Blue Willow china.
How her mother had loved those dishes. There were times when Willow wondered if they were the reason for her own name. They’d been the one thing to survive the host of troubles that had besieged her family: her mother’s death, her father’s accident in the mills and their descent into poverty. When her father had been taken to debtors’ prison, the dishes were meant to be sold. But unbeknownst to Willow, her father had packed them in a trunk and hidden them in one of the caves near their home. It wasn’t until Willow had been sent away to the Good Shepherd Charity School that he’d written to inform her where he’d hidden the china. It was the last letter she’d received before he died. An unwitting dowry for Willow, who had seen becoming a mail-order bride to a widower with ten children as the only means to escape a life of destitution and menial labor. Granted, she would probably be exchanging one form of servitude for another, but at least it would be her choice.
But now, in an impulsive need to help a friend, all of those plans had gone awry. And who knew what would happen once her lie was exposed?
Once again, the spot between her shoulder blades seemed to burn with past punishments, but she pushed the sensation away. Since coming to America, she’d already faced obstacles that she might have once thought impossible. She’d learned to tamp down her fear and focus on the end goal—and things were no different now. She would concentrate on Jenny’s children.
Since dinner was cooking and hot coffee waited in a pot on the stove, she returned to the tufted chair. She drew the basket close to her feet, where it would be warm enough to absorb the heat of the fireplace, but not so near that a stray spark might burn them. Pulling the blanket aside, she studied the two infants.
They were so small, so new. Their faces were still squinched and wrinkled, their little legs drawn tight to their bodies. She would wager that they were only a day old, perhaps two. So fragile.
So helpless.
No. Not helpless. Willow was here to protect them. And so was Charles.
One of the babies began to whimper, its fists balling up and flailing. Offering soft hushing noises, Willow reached to scoop it into her arms, only to discover that the baby was wet—which meant that now its clothes were wet and the blankets, as well. Thankfully, Willow had set the small stack of flannel nappies on a nearby table.
The infant settled somewhat once she had removed its wet clothing and changed its diaper. Her diaper. The smaller baby was a girl. Willow would need to find some dry blankets or cloths. But first...
When the second baby began to fret, Willow changed his diaper, as well.
A boy and a girl.
As she swaddled him beneath the woolen cape beside his sister, Willow blinked back tears. Jenny must have been so proud. How on earth had she managed to deliver them on her own and keep their arrival a secret? She must have been incredibly frightened to have taken such measures—and even more alarmed to have left them behind.
Willow jumped when someone pounded on the door. But the noise was quickly followed by “Willow, it’s me. Charles.”
She hurried to let him in, then closed the door amid a swirl of snow. The weather grew more frightful by the minute. The walls seemed to vibrate from the force of the wind. By the time she was able to set the latch, a skiff of white had coated the floor with icy crystals.
Charles had gone out with one pail, but he’d returned with two.
“I brought the milk and some water for washing.”
She took the buckets and transferred them to the wood range for heating. Then she helped Charles to shrug out of his coat and hat and hang them on the pegs by the door.
“It’s getting pretty fierce out there,” he said, brushing stray snowflakes from his shoulders and stamping his boots to rid them of a layer of ice.
“Sit by the fire.”
“No, I’ll help you with—”
She pulled on his wrist. “Sit. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink, then we’ll worry about the rest.”
The fact that he nodded and sank into the chair gave credence to the effort it must have taken to slog through the drifts.
Willow hurried to scoop a mound of mush into his bowl. She filled a spoon with honey and set it atop the hot mixture. Then she poured coffee into a mug and carried them to Charles.
“Thanks.
