by Lisa Bingham
For a few moments, Charles fiddled with the wick until the flame grew, curling and writhing against the chimney like a living thing. But a glance at the reservoir and what little kerosene remained reminded Charles that he didn’t have much time.
Turning, he held the lamp high, letting the glow seep into the corners. Instantly, he found what he’d been looking for. There were blankets piled in the corner, fresh wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. On a table near a rusty box stove were tins of food, some of them full, some opened and empty. Beside them, incongruously, was a woman’s hairbrush.
Charles moved to pick up the brush. It was a pretty thing. Made of silver, the back had a design of ornate curlicues with a fat cherub in the middle. Captured in the bristles were a few strands of dark hair.
He tucked the brush into his pocket. Willow would be able to tell him if it belonged to her friend, even though Charles was pretty sure he’d found the place where Jenny had gone to find shelter.
Who was she hiding from?
A burst of wind slammed the door against the opposite wall. Snow began to whirl into the cabin.
He turned in a slow circle, looking for any evidence of a comb or mirror. But there was nothing. Except...
He frowned when he saw a stick in the corner. No, not a stick. The wood was carefully shaped, polished. As he crept closer, Charles could see that it was the handle to an ax, most likely. The head was gone, but the groove that had once held the blade in place was still there.
Even then, it wasn’t the broken tool itself that drew his attention. It was the dark smear that stained the wood.
A cold finger seemed to trace down his spine.
Was he looking at the murder weapon?
Charles crouched to examine the piece more closely, just as a shot rang out and something slammed into the far wall.
Flattening onto the floor, Charles realized, too late, that he’d left his rifle leaning against the door jamb. He tried to belly crawl toward the weapon, but another shot rang out, piercing the floor next to his hand.
Instinctively, Charles rolled to the right, out of the range of the open doorway, then scrambled to his feet. After drawing his revolver, he pulled back the trigger.
He scanned his surroundings, knowing that he was in a sorry position. Judging by the second shot, the gunman was closer this time. Charles had only seconds before he was cornered. Then it would be a simple matter to pick him off.
In a flash, a dozen images raced through his head—Willow wearing her wedding veil, the twins in their basket, his wife’s hair curling wildly down her back.
No. He was going to keep his promise. He’d said that he would be home by lunchtime, and he would. One way or another.
Briefly closing his eyes, Charles offered up a quick prayer.
Lord, help me in my hour of need. Help me to return safely to my wife. My children.
Then, without another thought, he ran full tilt the breadth of the room and dived through the window.
As the glass shattered around him, he rolled in the snow in an attempt to absorb some of the impact. Then he was pushing to his feet, running toward the trees that grew next to the river.
The sound of his escape must have alerted his attacker, because Charles saw a shape moving around the side of the house, saw him lift an arm.
Bam!
Charles veered hard to the right just as a pine branch exploded beside him.
Only a little farther now. Once he reached the trees, he would have some cover.
He veered hard to the left.
Bam!
A puff of snow signaled that the gunman was beginning to anticipate his moves.
Charles launched himself into the air. Then he was falling, rolling, sliding past the cover of the trees to the river beyond. He skidded across the ice, moving far out into the center.
Cra-a-ack.
He scrambled to find his footing, to crawl back to the safety of the shore, just as a figure loomed out of the trees. Judging by the size and shape, it was a man. But just when he lifted his arm one last time to fire...
The ice imploded and Charles went down into the murky depths.
* * *
Willow was removing the last batch of cookies from the oven when she was suddenly overcome with a feeling unlike any she had ever encountered before. A dark heaviness settled over her...
She dropped the baking pan and stood rooted to the spot, trying to push the sensation away.
There was nothing at all to inspire such a reaction. Mr. Creakle and Mr. Smalls were still at their posts. The babies were lying on a quilt she’d spread out on the floor. Beyond the walls of Charles’s house she could hear the usual midafternoon bustle of Bachelor Bottoms—deep male voices, laughter, the muffled thud of hooves in the snow, the hiss of sleigh runners.
Her gaze skipped to the mantel clock. It was only half past noon. A little later than Charles had thought he would be home, but not so late that she should worry. Nevertheless, as she chided herself and reached for the spatula, her hand trembled.
Needing to reassure herself, she hurried to kneel beside the twins. They slept soundly, Eva with her fist pressed to her mouth and Adam’s lips twitching as if he were sucking on an imaginary bottle.
Fine. They’re both fine.
Not knowing why, she moved to the door, unbolted it and threw it wide.
Both Creakle and Smalls eyed her strangely.
“Is somethin’ wrong, Mrs. Wanlass, ma’am?”
“I... I don’t know.”
She stood for long moments, her ear cocked, expecting to hear the warning bell for the mine begin to toll.
The afternoon was peaceful, with gusts of wind whipping at the falling snow.
Was it the sound of the wind whistling across the chimneys and through the alleys that had disturbed her? It sometimes made a keening whine.
Even as she tried to isolate the sound, her eyes kept scanning the street, and the sensation did not waver.
“Mr. Smalls. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to find Mr. Wanlass. Ask him if he’ll be much longer...”
It was a weak excuse at best. But since the babies were safe, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to relax until she knew that Charles was on his way home. She had an overwhelming need to study him, from the golden waves of his hair to his scuffed boots. Just to make sure he was all right.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. But he’s not all that late,” Creakle stated.
“I know. I just...”
Since she had no other explanation for this...overwhelming urge to check on Charles, she turned beseechingly to Mr. Smalls.
“Please?”
The word emerged as little more than a rough whisper, but Smalls must have sensed a portion of her urgency, because he rose and reached for his greatcoat.
“He was going to the trapper’s cabin just beyond the mine. Do you know where that is?”
Smalls and Creakle exchanged glances, then Smalls nodded. Reaching for his hat, he jammed it onto his head.
Creakle must have finally begun to feel a portion of her worry, because he stood, as well. Instinctively, he grabbed the rifle he’d leaned against the wall and held it diagonally across his chest as he joined Willow at the door.
“Go to the livery and hitch up the sleigh,” Creakle said to his friend. “You know how Mr. Wanlass is punctual to a fault. Maybe he’s had trouble with his horse.”
Smalls nodded, then dodged into the storm. He’d gone only a few yards when he stopped, cocking his ear in the direction of the mine.
Without warning, a horse plunged out of the swirling snow. It ran riderless in the direction of the livery, its reins whipping behind it.
“Catch that horse, Smalls!” Creakle bellowed. Then he turned to Willow. “Get inside. Lock the door. That’s Mr. Wanlass’s mount!”
*
* *
Willow stood leaning against the panels of the door, panic assailing her.
What could have happened?
Where was Charles?
She tried to tell herself that a horse coming back alone to the camp wasn’t a catastrophe. The animal could have been spooked by a rabbit and bucked Charles to the ground. Or Charles could have tied the animal up and the wind could have startled the mare.
Nevertheless, the dread she felt didn’t ease.
Closing her eyes, she bowed her head and offered a quick heartfelt prayer.
“Please, Lord, watch over Charles and keep him safe. Help him to know that help is on its way, and help Mr. Creakle and Mr. Smalls find him.” Her throat grew tight, but she added, “And please, help me to know what I should do. Amen.”
She opened her eyes, barely seeing her surroundings. Instead, she took deep breaths to calm herself, then sorted her whirling thoughts into a logical order.
No matter what had happened, Charles would be cold.
Willow ran to the stove and stoked the fire, adding another log so that the flames wouldn’t go out.
Water.
She checked the reservoir in the range, topped it off, then grabbed a pail. She filled it to the top with snow, then returned, bolted the door and set the pail on the range to heat.
Pressing a finger to the spot between her brows, she closed her eyes.
What else?
Her mind skipped back, to the day when the second avalanche had occurred and many of the miners had been injured. What had Sumner done to prepare for their arrival?
Unfortunately, Willow couldn’t send for the doctor herself. Sumner hadn’t come to Bachelor Bottoms that day. Lydia had mentioned it when the woman stopped to cuddle the babies for a few minutes during the morning shift in the cook shack. But if Willow could remember what steps Sumner had taken when the catastrophe had occurred...
Hot bricks.
Heated blankets.
Her eyes flew open. Running upstairs, she gathered the quilt and blankets from her own cot, then draped them on chairs near the stove and by the fire.
Bricks.
She didn’t have any bricks! And the ones that Sumner had used were locked up in the infirmary.
Rocks. There had been some smooth river rocks piled next to the lean-to. They’d probably been left over from the foundation when it was built. Charles had warned her to step carefully if she ever went outside to tend to the goat, since the drifting snow sometimes obscured them.
Heedless of the storm, Willow ran into the cold, her lashes blinking against the whipping snow. The pile of rocks was all but buried beneath a drift, but she dug with her hands until she found the first stone.
It took nearly all of her strength to wrench it from its bed of ice. Staggering beneath its weight, she carried it inside and set it on the hearth, as close to the flames as she could. Then she returned twice more, before the ice surrounding the stones made it impossible for her to retrieve any more.
Bolting the door again, she laid several of the babies’ flannel diapers on top of the stove. They were the perfect size to wrap the stones and—
She suddenly became aware of the jingling of sleigh bells. Running to the door, she flung it wide just as Creakle and Smalls skidded to a halt in front of the stoop.
“He’s cold, missus. Deathly cold. Near as we can tell, he fell through the ice in the river and barely had the strength to get out. We found him shivering on the bank.”
Creakle jumped from the sleigh and ran to hold the skittish horse while Smalls climbed into the box. Bending down, he flung Charles over his shoulder, then staggered toward Willow.
“Take him upstairs to the bed, Mr. Smalls. Start undressing him as quickly as you can, then cover him with the blankets. I’ll be up in a few minutes with more.”
Smalls nodded, and headed inside for the staircase.
“Mr. Creakle, when you’ve seen to the horse, I’ve set three stones on the hearth to heat. There are some flannel squares draped over the stove. Wrap one of the stones with the flannel, then carry it upstairs. We’ll take turns putting the hot stones next to Charles’s feet to help ward off frostbite.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Since Creakle had been one of the men injured in the latest avalanche, he knew better than most how important—and how painful—it would be to warm Charles as soon as possible.
“Don’t you fear none, Mrs. Wanlass. Charles is a strong man. A good man. The Lord will bless him.”
Willow prayed that he was right. Because if anything happened to Charles, she didn’t know what she would do.
* * *
Ants.
He was covered in fire ants, being stung a thousand times until his whole body was on fire.
But cold. So cold.
Charles groaned as the dark oblivion that wrapped around him like a thick fog began to dissipate and fade. With it came the pain.
Unable to bring back the blackness, he fought the heaviness invading his body and tried his best to open his eyes. The most he was able to manage was a mere slit. Even then...
Had he died?
He seemed to be surrounded in a golden glow that flickered and danced. He vacillated between being warm and shivering uncontrollably.
His gaze fell upon a field of brightly colored flowers that enveloped his body. The blooms were oddly shaped, like something out of a dream.
A quilt. The blanket had been tucked so tightly around him that it bound him in place, preventing him from lifting his arms.
Even if he’d been able to find the strength to do so.
As he marveled at the warmth, the glow, the too-bright colors of the quilt, a shadow moved above him.
No. Not a shadow.
It was the ghostly mother again, the one from Headmistress Bedelmeyer’s office. This time, rather than regarding her child with rapt attention...
She was looking at him.
The glow seemed to grow brighter the longer he looked, illuminating her silhouette with an aura of red and gold. And then she spoke.
“Charles.”
She knew his name.
“Charles, you’re safe now.”
He didn’t feel safe. Warm, yes.
But safe?
His extremities were still bedeviled by a thousand demons poking him with pins. And his shoulder...
It burned as if it had been branded.
She touched him then, resting her hand against his forehead. That touch stilled the rapid beat of his heart. He felt the coolness of her touch stealing through him like spring water.
As if she’d read his mind, she asked, “Would you like something to drink?”
He thought he nodded—he hoped he nodded. Because his mouth felt dry, sticky.
She reached behind him to tip his head up, then pressed a tin mug to his lips. As soon as the liquid hit his tongue, he gulped greedily, fearing that there would never be enough water in the world to quench his thirst. But after only a few swallows, she took the mug away again and lowered his head.
“Not too much. Not yet. After a few minutes, I’ll give you more. Then, when you’re feeling better, I’ve got some broth heated and waiting.”
He frowned. The more she talked, the more he seemed to...know her.
Her hand returned to his brow again and he swallowed against the horrible dryness.
“Wh-what happened?” His voice emerged as an awful croak, but she seemed to understand him.
“Mr. Creakle and Mr. Smalls found you on the riverbank. You were soaked clear to the bone and the ice had broken in the center. They think you fell in.”
He closed his eyes, trying to remember. But it wasn’t the ice he recalled. Instead, images burst into his consciousness.
A dingy cabin.
Hair brush.
Ax.
Blood.
The crash of a window.
A shuddering crack.
In that instant, the pieces of the puzzle began to form a moving picture.
He remembered riding up to the trapper’s cabin. Going inside.
Yes, it was all there now. He could see the dusty interior that someone had tried so hard to make clean. There had been cobwebs hanging from the rafters, but the floor and the nest of blankets in the corner had been neat. A stack of logs had rested near the fireplace and tins of food waited on the table. And then...
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind to picture the rest.
A brush.
Yes. He’d found a silver hairbrush lying in the middle of the table as if it had been carelessly set aside, but still waited patiently for its owner. He remembered looking for the companion pieces...
And finding the bloody ax handle instead.
Then someone had shot at him.
“The brush—” He tried to rise and found himself hampered by the tight blankets, the trembling of his limbs and a bolt of lightning that raced from his shoulder to the base of his spine.
“Shh.”
She pressed him down onto the bed.
Willow.
His wife.
“You need to stay put. You nearly died from the cold. If Mr. Creakle and Mr. Smalls hadn’t found you when they did...”
He watched her throat move convulsively. A sheen of moisture pooled in her blue eyes.
Cornflower blue.
Forget-me-not blue.
“I don’t want you pulling your stitches loose.”
Frowning, he tunneled his hand through the blankets until he could gingerly touch his shoulder. Rather than skin, he encountered soft linen.
“It’s a good thing I watched Sumner stitch up those miners after the cave-in.” She offered him a smile that was more of a self-deprecating grimace. “I’m not saying that I did as well as she could have done. But my headmistress always said I was a passable seamstress.”
“What?”
“You were shot.” She pointed to the fleshy part of her own shoulder near her neck. “There’s a bullet hole in your coat to prove it. It made a furrow through your skin. I could have waited for Sumner to see to it tomorrow, I suppose. But we couldn’t stop the bleeding. And when Creakle volunteered to sew you up, I figured you might want someone with a...more delicate hand.”