grip on his arm was strong and steady, pulling them apart. But Charles managed to snag Willow’s hand and whisper, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.” Then the men pulled him resolutely into the darkness without even a coat to shield him from the cold.
* * *
Willow shivered in the quiet.
How had this happened?
Her mind worked in endless looping circles—Charles, babies, marriage—until the door burst open and several women dodged inside.
Leading the charge was Lydia Tomlinson, self-proclaimed suffragist. Unlike most of the mail-order brides in their group, she had no plans to marry. Instead, the avalanche had forestalled her plans to host a series of speaking engagements in California.
“Willow, why didn’t you tell us that you were already married?” Lydia asked, as she draped her cape over one of the kitchen chairs.
“I—”
“Now, Lydia, let the girl breathe.” Iona Skye reached to squeeze one of Willow’s hands. “If Charles and Willow saw fit to keep their relationship a secret in order to preserve the man’s job, it’s no business of ours.”
Thankfully, the other women heeded Iona’s words. As the eldest member of the group of stranded females, Iona had been on her way to live with her sister’s family. Because she was a widow woman, the mail-order brides tended to let her take the lead, since Sumner had moved to live with her husband off company property.
“Whatever the circumstances, we have a wedding to prepare—and not much time to do it.” Iona pointed to a pair of women with identical dark eyes and dark curls. “Myra and Miriam, you keep your eyes on the babes while Lydia and I take Willow upstairs to change. Emmarissa and Marie, you take care of decorating the mantel. They can restate their vows in front of the fire, so see what you can do to gussie it up with the extra candles we brought. The rest of you can make up some coffee and find some plates for the cookies left over from the cook shack. You can’t have a wedding without some refreshments.”
Before Willow could insist that there would be no guests—and no real wedding—Lydia and Iona took her hands and drew her up the staircase to the rooms above.
“This will do,” Lydia said, after opening the first door. Inside was one of the mine-issued cots, with a mattress rolled up tightly near the footboard. On the opposite wall was a simple dresser with a mirror and a chair.
“I brought your comb and brush, Willow, and your Sunday-best dress, but...” Lydia pulled the chair into the center of the room. “I wondered if you would like to be married in something...different.”
Willow found herself staring bemusedly at Lydia. “What?”
“Would you like to wear something other than your Sunday-best dress? Since the men haven’t found your second trunk yet, I thought you might like to wear something...brighter.”
Willow’s cheeks flamed. There was no second trunk—there never had been. She’d arrived in America with only two gowns to her name. Her Sunday-best dress was a staid, serviceable black faille, as shapeless and dreary as the dress she wore now. But when she’d announced that she would be leaving the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls, the headmaster had forbidden her to take anything with her that the school had provided. She’d been reduced to supplying her meagre wardrobe from the charity barrels bound for a mission in New Guinea. Unfortunately, the recent donations had been heavily laden with maternity wear.
“I...yes, I...”
Lydia didn’t seem to need any more of an answer than that, because she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Iona gently pushed Willow into the chair and began unwinding her braid.
“You have such beautiful hair,” the older woman murmured, making Willow’s skin prickle with self-consciousness.
Willow shifted uneasily. The headmaster at the Good Shepherd had proclaimed her red tresses a sign of evil and had insisted that she keep them covered at all times with a scarf or bonnet.
Before she quite knew what had happened, Iona had divided the tresses into smaller plaits, which she wound in an intricate design around the crown of her head and in a swirling knot at the nape of her neck. By that time, Lydia had returned with a carpetbag, from which she removed a yellow day dress sprigged with tiny pink roses.
Willow couldn’t prevent the soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her lips as the women stripped off the shapeless garment she’d been doomed to wear for months and replaced it with the fitted cotton gown.
The waist proved too large for Willow and the hem too long. However, Lydia had come prepared. Taking a needle and thread, she artfully tucked up the skirt, drawing the fullness toward the rear in a mock bustle. Then she took a length of pink ribbon from the carpetbag and tied it around Willow’s waist.
“There.”
Both Lydia and Iona stood back to eye their efforts.
“Beautiful,” Iona murmured. “She looks every inch a bride.”
Lydia’s brow furrowed. “Not quite.” She opened the door and called out, “Greta!”
Greta Heigle had traveled to the Territories all the way from Bavaria. A plump, blond-haired woman with pink cheeks and snapping blue eyes, she’d boarded the train without knowing a word of English. After a month marooned with the other mail-order brides, she was beginning to learn how to communicate with hand gestures and a sparse English vocabulary.
Willow heard soft footfalls running up the staircase, then Greta burst inside and gasped, “Die Männer sind hier.”
When the women looked at her blankly, she offered, “Men. Men.” Then she pointed to the floor.
“The men are here?”
“Ja!”
Greta then held out a length of lace, and before Willow could fathom what they meant to do, Lydia and Iona began pinning it to the crown of braids.
“Now she looks like a bride,” Lydia breathed with satisfaction.
Iona took Willow gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.
For a moment, the air whooshed out of Willow’s lungs. She’d spent so much time in staid black school uniforms or charity day gowns that she couldn’t remember when she’d ever worn color. The soft yellow dress made her skin milky, her hair bright as a flame. And the veil...the veil softened the effect even more. She did indeed look like...
Like a bride.
Even more...she looked...
Pretty.
“Schön. Lovely,” Greta murmured. The stout woman drew her close for a bone-crushing hug.
When she drew back, Willow fingered the delicate veil. The lace was soft, fashioned from gossamer silk floss. “I’ll return this as soon as possible.”
Greta’s brow knitted in puzzlement, so Willow mimed the action of unpinning the veil and handing it to her. Greta
