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. Someone had to stay with the twins. Someone who knew that they were in dire need of protection.
“There’s food in the larder, wood in a pile by the fireplace. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Then, to her infinite surprise, he bent to place a soft kiss on her brow, marking her as his own.
“Lock the door behind me,” he whispered to her.
Then he was gone, the latch snapping into place behind him.
* * *
Have you lost your mind?
Charles did his best to push aside the little inner voice that nagged at him for his impulsiveness.
He’d claimed a pair of newborn bairns as his own, and then had kissed Willow Granger to boot. If he weren’t tossed out of the mining camp on his ear within the hour, it would be a miracle.
Even as he inwardly castigated himself for his foolishness, Charles discovered that he didn’t regret his actions.
Which was odd.
He owed a debt to Ezra Batchwell and his business partner, Phineas Boggs. He’d been a teenager when they’d snatched him from utter ruin, and since then, Charles had dedicated his life to repaying them for the faith they’d had in his potential.
Yet he’d lied.
Something he’d promised he would never do again, least of all to them.
“What’s going on, Charles?”
The murmured question came from Jonah Ramsey, who seemed determined to keep pace with him.
Not knowing how to respond, Charles shook his head. His jaw tightened as he worked hard to tamp his emotions deep, deep into his soul. He would sort things out later, after he’d had some time to think, confer with Willow and appeal to God for the strength to appear calm. Maybe then he’d have an answer.
Jonah probably would have pressed him further, but they’d reached the steps of the mining office. Several men stood in the middle of the road, and as Charles wove his way through them, he caught a glimpse of the woman lying on the ground.
Even in the darkness, the prone figure of Jenny Reichmann was easy to recognize.
Willow’s fears had proved to be true.
Charles sank to his knees in the snow, reaching to touch the woman’s cheek. She was cold. Her eyes were partially open, staring sightlessly into the night.
“She’s been murdered,” someone grumbled.
Jonah held up a hand. “None of that, you hear? We don’t know what happened. This could have been a horrible accident. Maybe she was injured and tried to walk to the office to find help. She might not have realized that we were all at evening Devotional.”
Although Jonah’s voice brooked no argument, Charles knew that the rumors would continue until someone discovered the truth. There was nothing else to do during a cold night than think and talk and spin tales.
“What about her baby?” someone murmured.
Charles knew the answer before he shook his head. The mound of her stomach had already begun to gather a skiff of snow. “She’s been gone too long. There’s no saving it.” Even as he said the words, his scalp began to tighten
