her consternation as he sat.
“Shall I say grace?”
“Please.”
“Dear Lord of all...for these blessings and those that Thou sees fit to send to us, we are truly grateful. Amen.”
“Amen.”
There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. Willow supposed that the pair of them were so accustomed to being alone, neither knew how to proceed.
Thankfully, Charles broke the quiet by reaching for his bowl.
“Oatmeal. One of my favorites.”
Some of the stiffness left Willow’s frame and she started swirling the honey into the mush with her spoon.
“With raisins, too,” he commented.
She glanced up in sudden concern. Had she made herself too at home with his stores? Were the raisins reserved for some other purpose?
But Charles didn’t look upset. Instead, he took a bite filled with the fruit, then made a soft humming sound and nodded. “It’s good. Really good.”
Willow wilted in relief.
“What? Were you thinking I wouldn’t like it?”
“I—I didn’t know if you were expecting something...fancier.”
He gave a short humph. “I’m well aware of the shortcomings of my larder. And what true Scotsman doesn’t like his oatmeal?” He offered a wink. “Especially with raisins.”
Willow laughed, and the brittleness of the moment was broken.
“How are the wee ones?”
“Fine. I’ve no doubt they’ll rouse soon. Unfortunately, while you were gone, they wet themselves clear through their clothes and their blankets. There were spare diapers, but not much else.”
“We’ll make a list of what they need tonight. The company store opens soon after breakfast is served and the shifts change.”
“Afterward, maybe you could...watch the children while I go to the Dovecote?” she asked hesitantly. When Charles regarded her questioningly, she said, “I’ll need to fetch my clothing. And a trunk with some belongings.”
“If you want to write a note to Sumner or one of the other girls, I’ll hitch up the sleigh and fetch them for you myself. There’s no sense going out in this weather if you don’t have to.”
Other than her father, Willow had never had someone put her comfort first, and the suggestion settled in her chest with a warm glow.
“Thank you. That would be very nice.”
Charles set his empty bowl aside and reached for his cup.
“There’s more oatmeal on the stove.”
“Mmm. Maybe in a minute. Right now, it feels good to sit by the fire.” He took a sip and then stared down at the children. “You’re sure they’re hale and hearty? They seem to sleep a great deal.”
“They’re only a day or two old. All that sleeping is normal for a newborn. Even so, we should probably have Sumner take a look at them.”
“She’ll be at the Dovecote in the next day or so. If she’s there when I collect your things, I’ll ask her to drop by. If not, I’ll leave a message.”
Willow hesitantly said, “We should give them names. As their parents...we would have named them.”
“You’re right.” His expression became solemn in the firelight. “It seems wrong somehow...for us to do the honor. Their mother should have had the chance.”
The soft luffing of the fire filled the silence.
“Did she mention possible names to you?”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t think she anticipated having twins. She rarely spoke about the baby itself, merely...her discomfort with her condition.”
Charles met her gaze, his expression sober and intent. “Then the task falls on us.”
As if understanding that they were the subject of conversation, the infants began to stir. Willow set her bowl aside and bent to touch the cheek of the littlest child.
“This one is a girl.”
She stroked the dark tuft of hair on the other baby.
“And this one is a boy.”
Charles bent closer. “A boy and a girl. Imagine that.” He reached out a finger and the little girl reacted instinctively, clutching it in her fist. Charles half laughed, half gasped in astonishment.
“The first two children born in Bachelor Bottoms.” His lips twitched in a smile. “Our own Adam and—”
“Eva,” Willow interrupted. “Her name should be Eva.”
Charles grinned.
Willow had grown so accustomed to seeing Charles Wanlass—a man the miners had nicknamed “The Bishop”—looking serious and reserved. She could scarcely credit the way that his expression made him seem young and boyish.
“Adam and Eva.”
Charles touched each of the children on the top of the head with his broad palms. Then, before Willow knew what he meant to do, he closed his eyes, saying, “Dear Lord, we are grateful to Thee for these sweet children, little Adam and Eva. We mourn the loss of their mother and pray that, with Thy guidance, these infants will be happy, healthy and free from harm. Amen.”
Willow’s eyes pricked with tears. Other than her father, she’d never witnessed a man who was so tender and gentle.
Yet strong.
When he’d ordered Mr. Batchwell from his home, Charles had made it clear that he would brook no interference with the infants he’d claimed as his own.
Or 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
