the noise halted—but the silence that ensued was worse. The quiet was so thick that Charles was sure he could hear the snowflakes landing on the dead woman’s skin.
Sumner laid a hand on Charles’s sleeve, but he barely felt it until she squeezed more forcefully. “Charles, do you think you could carry her to the infirmary for me? Maybe there, you can say a few words over her.”
He nodded, his throat feeling thick and tight.
“The rest of you go home!” Sumner called out. “And keep your gossiping to yourselves for now. There’s no sense riling up the whole mining camp until we know exactly what happened.”
One by one, the miners began to fade into the darkness, until only Jonah, Charles and Ezra Batchwell remained.
“Jonah, give him some room. It’s been less than a month since we removed the shrapnel near your spine. I don’t want you hurting your back now that it’s on the mend. Charles, if you’re ready.”
Charles slid his hands beneath the still form.
Then he carried his burden into the night.
* * *
Willow glanced up at the ticking clock on the mantel and sighed when the spindly hands marked the passing of another quarter hour.
Since Charles had left, she’d tried to make herself useful. She’d stoked the coals in the fireplace and in his range, and put enough wood on both to chase the chill from the combined kitchen and sitting area. Then, deciding that he would be cold and tired when he came home, she’d made coffee.
Soon, the babies had begun to rouse. Fearing they were hungry, Willow had fretted over how she would feed them. But thankfully, once she’d changed their diapers from a pile of flannel squares she’d found tucked into the corner of the basket, they’d fallen back to sleep.
For now.
How on earth was she going to give credence to the claim of being their mother if she couldn’t feed them herself?
Sitting in the only comfortable chair in the room—a tufted easy chair drawn close to the fireplace—she’d taken turns holding the children.
A boy. And a girl.
The instant she’d cuddled them in her arms, a fierce wave of protectiveness had rushed through her. She’d felt her heart melt at the sight of their tiny fingers.
As the snow spattered against the window, she wondered how long it would be before she was punished for that untruth. Even now, her skin seemed to prickle in foreboding. It had taken only a few fibs at the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls for Willow to learn that the adults in her life would brook no disobedience or dishonor.
God would punish her for the lie.
But she couldn’t find it within her to confess her deceit to Batchwell and Bottoms.
A pounding sound suddenly broke the quiet, and Willow jumped. Immediately, her heart collided against her ribs in time with the banging. Panicked, she set the baby in the basket, covered both wee faces with a blanket and then searched for a place to hide them.
She should have prepared for the worst as soon as she’d locked the door.
“Willow? It’s me.”
It took a moment for her to absorb the words and the low timbre of the voice, but the Scottish lilt slowed the frantic thud of her pulse.
Charles.
She rushed to open the door. After he dodged inside amid a swirl of snow and ice and wind, she slammed the door shut again.
In the firelight, his features looked pinched and pale. Not for the first time, she was struck by the angular lines of his face, the sharp cheekbones, his piercing gray eyes.
“You didn’t light the lamps?”
“I—I didn’t know if you wanted me to use the kerosene.”
He regarded her with open puzzlement, then murmured, “Daft girl. I wouldna leave you here in the dark. Take care of them now while I get out of my coat.”
She hurried to light one of the waxy faggots he kept in a cup on the mantel. Holding her hand over the flame to protect it from the draft, she lit the lamp in the center of the table on what she supposed was the “eating” side of the keeping room. Then, after adjusting the wick, she blew out the taper.
Once again, Charles eyed her curiously. “Do the rest of them. We’ll need to be seeing one another. Given all that’s happened, you and I need to talk.”
At those words, her gaze tangled with his, and she saw in the depth of those kind gray eyes a wealth of sadness.
Without being told, she knew he brought bad news.
After lighting the faggot again, she stumbled through her task of lighting the lamps. When she’d finished, she couldn’t deny that by chasing the shadows from the corners of the room, the buttery glow had banished some of her fear, as well.
Charles shrugged off his heavy shearling coat. He hung it and his hat on two of the pegs by the door. Then he shook his head, causing droplets of melted snow to fly from his close-cropped hair.
For the first time, Willow allowed herself to study the man intently. He wasn’t what the other girls would consider handsome. His features were too sharp and angular for that. But without his coat, she could see that he was broad-shouldered, and lean—although in Willow’s opinion, he could use a few good meals. Nevertheless, he radiated an aura of strength and dignity.
“How are they?” He gestured to the basket.
“Fine.”
“No problems?”
“No, but...they’ll be needing food soon and...”
Her cheeks flushed with sudden heat. How on earth could she broach with a man the subject of feeding newborns?
Charles didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. As he bent over the basket, his features lost their sharp angles and his expression glowed with wonder.
“I thought about that already. There are some goats in the barn by the livery. As soon as things calm down, I’ll see if I can milk one or bring the animal here. I’ve got a lean-to in the back where it could stay for now.”
He looked up at her then. In the past, she’d always thought his gray eyes were calm and peaceful. In that moment, they pierced her with their intensity.
“The twins aren’t really yours, are they?”
She couldn’t bring herself to lie. Not to him.
Willow shook her head.
“So, they belonged to Jenny?”
She
