spring for as long as possible. Less than a month ago, a freak avalanche had closed off the pass, marooning a trainload of women in the valley.
And none of the miners looked forward to that moment when they would go.
“Willow?”
The cry was fainter this time, the giggling more disjointed.
Charles wondered what could have happened to separate Willow Granger from the rest of the group. She was a shy little thing, so tiny she could fit under his chin. Sober and wide-eyed. He couldn’t imagine what could have caused her to escape the Pinkerton guards who had been tasked with keeping the women away from the miners.
As he stepped inside and threw his hat onto a nearby table, he became aware of several things at once: footsteps running through the snow, a commotion of male voices, shouts from the center of town and cooing.
Or the soft mewling of a cat. Or...
A baby?
In that instant, he became aware of a basket on the floor in front of him. It was heaped with blankets. A note pinned to the top read: “Please, please protect my little ones and keep them as your own. They are in more danger than I can express.”
Crouching, Charles moved the blankets aside, revealing not one, but two cherubic faces.
Tiny. So tiny.
A surge of protectiveness rushed through him like a tidal wave, washing all other thoughts and emotions aside.
Almost simultaneously, he heard footsteps charging into his home. He placed himself between the intruder and the basket. To his surprise, it wasn’t a burly assailant, but one of the mail-order brides.
Willow Granger.
From the moment of their arrival, Willow had been a source of curiosity for Charles. Where the other girls were carefree and chatty—even giggly or silly—Willow stood out. The woman was reserved, seldom speaking in Charles’s presence. She had a mane of curly auburn hair the same bright red-gold as a sunset. Most days, she barely managed to contain it in a thick braid. Unlike the other ladies, her wardrobe seemed limited, a pair of shapeless dresses that obscured her figure—one for every day and one for Sunday best. And she was watchful. He wouldn’t doubt that those pale cornflower-blue eyes saw everything, even the contents of a person’s heart.
She seemed to sense that something was amiss because she peered around him. In an instant, she took in the basket, the babies and then the note. Before he could stop her, she snatched the paper from its mooring and read the words.
“Oh.”
It was a mere puff of sound, but it held a wealth of emotion—shock, concern, dismay.
Unfortunately, neither of them had time to ask each other questions, because a swarm of men were heading toward them—the Pinkertons, and close on their heels a group of miners, including Jonah Ramsey, the superintendent of mines, and Ezra Batchwell, 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,
