by Lisa Bingham
So when she backed away, she nearly didn’t see the shape below. It was only in the last second that she saw the figure of a man striding quickly between the houses on the opposite side of the lane. The man was tall, broad, well over six feet.
A frisson of gooseflesh skittered up her spine.
Someone had been watching them.
* * *
The women arrived less than an hour later, bursting into the house with a wave of laughter and chatter.
“Get your hat and coat, Willow!” Lydia called out as she slammed the door behind them.
Willow blinked at them uncomprehendingly, rocking Eva in her arms, even though the child had fallen asleep long ago.
“We’re taking you and the children for a walk,” Lydia announced. “We’ve already spoken to Sumner about it—in fact, it was her idea. The sun is out and she recommends that you and the children get some fresh air. We thought you could come with us to the Dovecote, have some tea and gossip with the other women.”
“But... I promised Charles that I’d have lunch waiting for him.”
“We’ll get you back in plenty of time for that.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t have anything warm for the children or—”
Iona dropped a basket on the table. “We’ve taken care of all that. Don’t you worry.”
She removed a hand-knitted baby sacque. The thick jacket-like gown had been fashioned from navy wool with a drawstring at the bottom to ensure that the baby’s feet stayed warm.
“The women have been knitting and crocheting for days. There are sacques for each of the twins, two wee hats and two pairs of infant stockings. I also have a couple of sturdy infant blankets for wrapping them up.”
Willow couldn’t prevent the way her mouth gaped. “How did you manage all this in such a short amount of time? And with so few provisions? I hope you didn’t use up your precious hope chest items.”
Emmarissa laughed. “We didn’t need to—although we would have been glad to do it. But as soon as the miners heard about the babies, we started getting donations. We unraveled a sweater for yarn for the jackets and made the blankets by cutting up a larger quilt. All of the women helped. They’ve tried to give you and Charles enough time to settle in, but they’re anxious to see the twins, and I don’t think we can hold them off any longer. If you don’t come, they’ve threatened to storm the Pinkertons.”
Willow laughed, still hesitant. But when she thought of the figure she’d seen watching the house...
Wouldn’t she be safer in the Dovecote, surrounded by Pinkerton guards?
“I’ll get my things if you’ll bundle up the children.”
“Deal,” Myra said, reaching for Eva.
Willow raced upstairs, where she took a moment to rebraid her hair, tighten the laces on her boots and take off her apron. Then she grabbed her cape, her bonnet and her gloves and clattered down the steps again.
She found the twins bundled up to their noses. Only their eyes were visible as they blinked curiously at the commotion that surrounded them.
For a moment, Willow hesitated. “Are you sure this is a good idea? The weather has been so bad the past little while...”
“It’s warmer today. Promise.” Lydia took her hand and drew her toward the door. “Besides, we have another surprise for you.”
“But the babies will need—”
“We’ve already gathered their things,” Emmarissa interrupted, holding up the basket that Iona had brought with her.
Since Greta and Iona already had a firm grip on the twins, Willow allowed herself to be pulled outside where, as promised, a brilliant sun glinted painfully off the newly fallen snow. The fringe of icicles hanging from the eaves pounded out an irregular tattoo onto the melting ice below.
It wasn’t until Willow stepped into the street that she realized more of the women waited outside.
“Ta-da!” Millie called out with a flourish of her hand.
She and Marie moved aside to reveal a miniature version of Mr. Smalls’s sledge. The long wooden box had been painted a bright green and a tiny version of the bench had been painted red. Red sleigh runners allowed the conveyance to slide easily across the snow, and the tongue portion had been fitted with a handle for pulling. On the side, someone had painted the Batchwell Bottoms Mine logo along with a flowing script that read Miner Training Program.
“Oh!” Willow’s hands flew to her mouth.
“Isn’t it sweet? Mr. Ramsey made the sledge and Sumner did the painting.”
Willow felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. The tiny sleigh must have taken hours of work.
“We’ve lined the box with warm bricks and a blanket. We’ll bundle the babies inside and cover them with another quilt and they’ll be right as rain.”
Iona and Millie made short work of tucking the babies inside. Then Greta grabbed the handle, calling out, “Kommen, ladies. Come!”
Chapter Thirteen
The sound of the women’s laughter and chatter soon enveloped Willow like a warm, familiar hug. Because of their large group, they eschewed the boardwalk and made their way down the center of the street, their retinue of Pinkerton guards trailing along behind them. This time of day, there weren’t many wagons, just a few men on horseback, or pulling handcarts full of tools, and it was easy to avoid them. As they passed, the miners tipped their hats and called out their own greetings.
“Mornin’, ladies.”
“Mighty fine breakfast today!”
“Good day t’all y’all.”
Willow tipped her face to the sun, enjoying the warmth upon her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been forced to remain indoors for such an extended period of time. Perhaps when she’d worked in the woolen mills as a child? At school, once the teachers had despaired of her catching up with her peers, she’d been banished from the classrooms and put to work instead. She’d been told that she was being trained for service, but Willow hadn’t been fooled. They’d needed someone to clean and fetch and carry.
At the head of their group, Emmarissa and Marie had begun to sing “Onward Christian Soldiers” at the tops of their lungs, and Willow didn’t miss the smiles of the men who tipped their hats at them from the stoop in front of the barbershop.
Although being outside with the other women was as heady as a trip to a summer fair, Willow couldn’t prevent the way her gaze scanned the onlookers. If she studied the men hard enough, would she be able to recognize the figure who’d been watching the house this morning? Even more importantly, would he give himself away?
“The children are beautiful, Willow. You must be so proud.” Essie Esposito walked backward as she made the comment.
“I am.”
“I think they’re already beginning to grow,” Miriam said warmly. “Their cheeks are filling out.”
“Yes. The goat’s milk seems to agree with them.”
There was nothing suspicious about the men waiting outside the barbershop. They watched the women for a moment, then turned back to their own conversations. A few doors down, two men came out of the cook shack. But after lifting lazy hands to the women, they walked in the opposite direction.
A wagon appeared at one of the cross streets and the driver pulled up, waiting for the brides to pass. He tipped his hat and offered, “Howdy, ladies.” But other than a broad grin, he didn’t seem particularly interested in the group.
Willow started when a hand took hers. Looking up, she found Lydia by her side.
“You seem preoccupied,” her friend murmured in a voice that would not carry to the others.
“I...”
Lydia squeezed her hand. “I knew this might make you nervous, leaving your house. But I hoped with the Pinkertons present that you could enjoy yourself.”
Willow felt heat seep into her cheeks. Was she that transpa
rent? If so, she wasn’t going to make a very good detective.
“It’s understandable,” Lydia continued. “We’re all a little on edge since Jenny was...”
Lydia seemed to find it hard to say the word.
Killed.
Murdered.
“For the first time since Batchwell insisted we have a guard, the women are actually taking the Pinkertons seriously. The past week or two, they’ve stayed close to home. Even when they leave the Dovecote for a walk around the meadow, they take one of the men along.”
“Except for you,” Willow said wryly. “You still slip their net to come visit me.”
Lydia’s brows rose. “I can take care of myself. I learned long ago not to venture anywhere without a derringer tucked into my corset.”
Willow’s eyes widened. “You don’t!”
“I do. And oftentimes, there’s another one tucked into my boot top, as well.”
Honestly, Willow would never have thought that Lydia—the personification of high society femininity—would be armed to the teeth.
“You need to be careful, as well, Willow.”
“I am. Charles has left a weapon with me whenever he leaves the house.”
“Good.”
There was a beat of silence between them. Two. They were nearing the Dovecote. Willow could see sunlight glinting off sparkling clean windows. Smoke rose from the chimney, and if she weren’t mistaken, the scent of baking bread accompanied it.
“I doubt you’ve heard it yet, since the plans were only set this morning, but...they’ll be holding Jenny’s funeral tomorrow.”
Willow felt her stomach lurch at the thought, even though she’d been expecting as much for days.
“When?”
“Right after the morning meal has been served in the cook shack.”
Willow’s eyes skipped over the glistening snow in the lane, the towering pines, the dull sheen of the frozen river in the distance.
“Where will they bury her?”
“I’m not sure yet. Sumner accompanied Jonah to the mine office to help finalize all of the plans. But I thought you should know.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.”
“I’m sure that you’ll want to attend, since you were Jenny’s closest friend. Iona and I could watch the children for you. Surely Batchwell wouldn’t begrudge us that much.”
“But you’ll want to attend the funeral yourself.”
“It’s more important that you feel comfortable leaving the children for a few hours.”
Willow’s brain skipped from Lydia’s confession of a derringer tucked into her corset, to the figure she’d seen in the alley, to the sight of Charles soaked and chilled to near death.
“No, I...”
Her brain seized on Creakle and Smalls, to their fierce determination as they went hunting for Charles and their sweet devotion to the children.
“No. You should go to the funeral. I have a couple of baby minders in mind, and they’re armed to the teeth.”
Lydia smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
* * *
Charles straightened from where he’d been examining the failed charges from the previous blasting of tunnel nine.
“Any ideas on what went wrong?” Jonah asked.
“Yeah. Half of these charges were dummies.”
“What?”
Charles reached for a set of dynamite that hadn’t exploded. The charge had been fashioned from six sticks lashed together. The center portion of dynamite held the blasting cap.
He tugged the cap free, then took a knife from his pocket and cut the cords that bound the bundle. “None of my men would be fooled by these. They’ve been at this too long.”
To most people, the units of explosives might look identical. They were all the same length, the same width, and wrapped in the same red label. But to a blaster, the weight alone was enough to give things away.
“This one’s real,” Charles said, handing it to Jonah. “The rest are not.” When he passed him another stick, the man’s lips thinned.
“Who would do such a thing?”
Charles squinted, looking at the rock face of the tunnel. “I’d vouch for my men. They’ve got nothing to gain from this kind of sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” Jonah echoed.
“I’m not accusing anyone. But that would be my take on things.” He reached out to feel the blackened portions of the wall where soot and residue clung to the rock. “Looks to me like whoever did this intended for the blasting cap to be inserted into the one real stick. That way, you get a nice boom and some rubble, but not enough power to do the job.” He pointed to the units that Jonah held. “I think he got careless and put the cap in the wrong stick on this one.”
Using his knife again, Charles sliced open one of the dummy charges. A trickle of white powder dribbled out. He leaned down to sniff it, then rubbed the substance between his thumb and forefinger.
“Flour.”
A muscle worked in Jonah’s jaw.
“Any of the blasters would have found the switch as soon as they picked it up. I’m not saying that it’s impossible that one of them is involved, but I’ve been working with them a long time. I can’t imagine any of them doing it.”
“So, someone came along afterward and changed things.”
“Aye. And even worse...that means someone out there has a stash of stolen dynamite.”
* * *
Willow had missed the hustle and bustle of the Dovecote. From the moment she and the children appeared, they were welcomed inside, and ushered to a spot in front of the fire. Soon, she was being plied with cups of cocoa and a hot breakfast.
She hadn’t realized how vigilant she had become, always listening for a sound out of place or a shadow at the window. But here, she was among friends, and her guard dropped. Before she knew what had happened, the children were whisked away from her and passed from one woman to another.
“You must still feel shaken after Charles’s accident,” Iona said, taking a seat nearby.
Willow lowered her eyes. It had been impossible to keep the news secret about his plunge into the river. But they’d managed to pass it off as a freak occurrence.
Iona reached to squeeze Willow’s hand. “I can’t imagine how frightened you must have been when they brought him home.”
Again, Willow nodded.
Lydia dropped into a chair. “The Pinkertons said they’d be happy to escort you back before lunch, so you can relax and enjoy your visit.”
Iona patted Willow’s hand. “There, you see? We’ll all have a wonderful morning with you and the babies.”
It wasn’t until an hour later that Willow was able to slip away. While the other women were engrossed with the twins, she made an excuse to go to the kitchen, then took the back stairs to the upper rooms. If Jenny’s belongings hadn’t been boxed up, maybe she could see if someone had rifled through her things.
Knowing that some of the floorboards creaked, Willow kept to the side of the corridor until she reached the room that she and Jenny had shared.
For all she knew, the room had been assigned to someone else. Willow’s belongings had long since been moved to Charles’s house, and with Jenny gone, there wouldn’t be much sense in keeping the room empty.
Thankfully, as she slipped inside, she was able to see that all her friend’s belongings were there. Even though...
Someone had been here. She was sure of it.
Willow examined the things on the dresser, taking in the mirror and comb that belonged to the same set that Charles had found. Jenny had been very particular about her belongings, always arranging them in the same order. Willow doubted that anyone else would have noticed, but many of the items had been moved.
She supposed there could be a logical explanation. The objects could have been shifted during cleaning,
or when the girls had picked up Willow’s belongings.
But when she bent to open Jenny’s trunk, it was obvious that it had been searched. The contents were jumbled and pushed to the side. A pot of powder had been spilled over her Sunday-best gown, and letters and papers had been torn from their envelopes.
Willow had difficulty deciphering the script on the pages, so she carefully folded them again and put them on Jenny’s bed. Her cheeks grew hot when she realized that she would have to ask Charles to read them, and in doing so, he would understand the limits to her education...
She thrust that thought aside. There was no room for pride where the twins’ safety was concerned.
She took a few more minutes to go through the trunk. Just as she’d thought, the woolen stocking where Jenny had hidden some of her valuables had been dumped out. The earrings and coins that had been stashed in the toe were still there. Only the rattle was gone.
Saddened, Willow neatly folded Jenny’s clothing and placed the garments back in their places. As she did so, she tried to decide if anything else was missing.
She couldn’t think of anything. Like Willow, Jenny had come to the American Territories from England. She’d brought only the necessities and some hand-sewn items, most of which had been completed on her journey as a way to pass the time. The only other thing that had ever occupied her leisure had been her...
Her journal.
How could she have forgotten the woman’s journal? Each evening, Jenny had made a careful entry in the leather-bound book. Willow had watched her friend with envy as she’d filled page after page with her elegant script, sometimes spending hours on the task. She’d told Willow that it was a way for her to think things through, to savor the good times and overcome the bad. She’d even pressed mementos between the pages—hair ribbons and blossoms, her ticket stubs and itineraries. Here in Bachelor Bottoms, she’d collected things from her walks: pine needles, holly leaves, a feather from a hawk.
Someone else must have remembered the book, either to uncover clues surrounding her murder...
Or to destroy something that Jenny had written.
“Please let it be here,” Willow whispered, digging down below the stacks of clothing in the other woman’s trunk. The tip of her finger felt carefully, finding the spot where one of the corners had a piece of missing wood.