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.
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