Accidental Family

by Lisa Bingham

  To anyone unfamiliar with Jenny’s habits or her trunk, the tiny imperfection would probably have gone unnoticed. Willow might well be the only person in Bachelor Bottoms who knew that the plank was actually a false bottom that could be lifted up and...

  Her breath escaped in a slow whoosh. In the narrow space, she could see that all Jenny’s treasures were intact. A fob watch that had belonged to her mother, a sack with a half-dozen gold coins.

  And the journal.

  Willow snatched up the book, setting it on the bed next to the letters. Then she quickly settled the bottom back into place and straightened the rest of Jenny’s belongings. Only when she felt like everything had been given the attention it deserved did she stand.

  For a moment, she paused, pondering her next course of action. She didn’t have much time. At any moment one of the other women could come looking for her. If someone did, how was she going to explain why she had taken Jenny’s things?

  “Willow?”

  The faint cry came from downstairs and Willow panicked. She didn’t have a reticule with her or even a coat pocket.

  Acting quickly, she shoved the letters into the journal, then tucked the book into the waistband of her petticoat. The dress she wore was just loose enough at the waist to hide the book as long as she was careful.

  She was shaking her skirts out when the door suddenly opened.

  “I wondered if you were up here,” Lydia said. “You gave us all a start when we couldn’t find you.”

  Willow feared the smile she summoned looked as shaky as she felt. “I just wanted to...”

  “Visit the last place you saw Jenny?”

  Willow nodded, hoping that the heat seeping up her neck wasn’t noticeable. She’d never been much good at getting away with a lie.

  “You must miss her, what with all the time you spent together.”

  Not trusting her voice, Willow nodded again.

  “That’s why none of us have packed up her things. It seems somehow...disrespectful to move someone else in here. It’s too...soon.”

  Willow wrapped her arms around her waist to hold the journal more securely. “Yes.”

  “One of these days, you and I will pack up the little bits and pieces she has scattered around the room. I’m sure that Jenny would have wanted you to keep her things.”

  “No, I couldn’t! I...”

  The words died in her throat. Willow might not have felt comfortable taking them. But someday, when the children were grown, wouldn’t they want something of their mother’s?

  Lydia must have sensed some of Willow’s chaotic emotions because she stepped forward to enfold her in a hug. Willow squeezed her eyes shut, praying that the other woman wouldn’t sense the hard shape of the journal or the pounding of her heart. But when Lydia drew back again, her pale blue eyes were full of understanding.

  “There’s plenty of time to decide all that. It’s still months away from spring. In the meantime, none of Jenny’s things are going anywhere. They’ll stay right here, in this room where they belong.”

  * * *

  In the end, it proved impossible for Charles to break away during the middle of the day—and he rued that fact. He’d wanted to check on Willow and the children.

  But with the possibility of sabotage in the mines and nearly a case of missing dynamite, he’d stayed in the tunnels, looking for any clues that might lead to the culprit. Charles was still preoccupied about the dummy charges when the whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift.

  Normally, he would join the tide, follow the other men from the mine to the Meeting House, where evening Devotional would be held, then from there to the cook shack for their meal.

  But since he’d confessed to being a husband and father, he hadn’t stepped foot in the Meeting House. It didn’t feel right to gather for worship with the other men when he continued to mislead them. Even if it meant the safety of two wee bairns.

  “Will y’ be comin’ with us, Charles?”

  He looked up to find one of his crew members lingering at the end of the tunnel.

  Not knowing how he should respond, Charles offered noncommittally, “You go ahead. I’ll follow along in a minute.”

  Hal Groberg nodded. “We sure do miss your sermons, Charles. It’s just not the same without y’ there.”

  The man left, sparing Charles from having to come up with a comment. What could he say? Truth be told, he missed the Devotionals himself, not so much for the words he’d imparted, but for the fellowship of the men. It strengthened him to be with others who pushed their worldly cares away twice a day to focus on their spiritual paths.

  Gathering up the last of his schematics, Charles headed to the tunnel office, where he stowed his equipment and the drawings.

  For several moments, he stood in indecision, reluctant to leave until the others had filtered into the Meeting House. As his gaze scanned the office, he saw the small desk where Creakle generally tallied up the hours for the payroll.

  Charles crossed to the desk and spread open the ledger, quickly rifling through the pages.

  The mine had strict safety rules, as well as a means of tracking the men while they were below ground. A guard station was set up at the head of the two main tunnels. A pegboard held a series of numbered brass badges that were assigned to each miner, and each miner had two badges. One remained on the pegboard. The other went into the miner’s pocket. A man couldn’t go in or out of the tunnel without taking or leaving a badge. As soon as he did, the security officer would make a notation in the log.

  Charles ran his finger down the page. He doubted that the charges could have been tampered with during the shifts. There were too many men going about their business. More likely, it would happen between the early bird shift and the hoot owl shift. Whoever had switched the dynamite could have let the other men go ahead, then made the changes while the other miners went to Devotional—much like Charles was doing now. The culprit could have had an hour. Two, if he worked while the rest of the camp was getting their evening meal.

  Charles flipped the page.

  January 16.

  There were two entries leaving the mine later than the others. Theo Caruso and...

  Charles Wanlass.

  What on earth?

  He squinted, sure that he’d read things wrong. The penmanship in the ledger came from someone with an illegible scrawl, and a few of the entries required some deciphering.

  But, no. Written in a jagged script was his own name, along with his assigned badge number, forty-seven.

  Perhaps the badge had been given to another worker when Charles had resigned, and the man at the checkpoint had used Charles’s name out of habit.

  But even that didn’t make sense. When he’d returned as a consultant, he’d continued to use his old identification. The only time he’d been away from the mine since then were the three days he took to recover from his plunge into the river.

  “Boss man?”

  Charles started, slamming the book shut. He was reaching for his hat and coat when Creakle poked his head in the door.

  “If’n yer about done here, yer missus sent me t’ tell you that yer supper is hot and on the stove.”

  “Thanks, Creakle. Why don’t you and Smalls head on to Devotional? I’ll be going straight home.”

  “Thank ye kindly. I hear tell it’s stew fer dinner at the cook shack tonight, so’s me an Smalls will be wantin’ to find a seat by the door so’s we can clip out right after the closing prayer.”

  Creakle offered a wink and Charles laughed.

  “Don’t let me keep you then. Go do what you need to do.”

  “’Night, boss.”

  “Good night, Creakle.”

  Charles waited until he’d disappeared, then returned to the ledger on the desk. If he hurried, he’d be able to see how many of the men on their su
spect list had been in the mine the day Jenny had been killed. Since she’d been discovered after the evening Devotional, and her body had already grown cold, Charles felt that it would be safe to assume that she would have been killed before the shift ended.

  “So let’s see how many of you were off duty or left before the whistle, shall we, now?”

  * * *

  After her visit to the Dovecote, Willow’s day had taken a turn for the worse. From the moment she’d stepped inside Charles’s home, something had felt wrong. As if someone had been there. But try as she might, she couldn’t find any evidence to support her misgivings. Nevertheless, as she moved from task to task, she couldn’t keep her mind focused. She grew jumpy. Out of sorts.

  Willow ran to move a cast-iron skillet from the stove before the sizzling bacon could burn, only to blister her hand when she forgot to use a hot pad. By the time she grabbed a cloth and shifted the bacon, the scent of charred meat stung the air. Lifting the lid to the pot at the rear, she groaned when she discovered that the beans had boiled dry and were now a caked, scorched mess.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  Ever since Charles had sent word that he wouldn’t be able to join her for lunch, she’d been planning this meal, knowing that he would be returning after his first full shift. She’d meant to lay a beautiful table, have the house tidied just so and set hot food in front of him as soon as he walked through the door.

  But from the beginning, events had conspired against her. The weather had closed in again, and what had begun as a simple snowfall soon became an all-out blizzard. Because of that, the other women had not been able to drop by for another visit before going to the cook shack. Willow had grown to rely on having them help with the children for a few minutes so that she could change her clothes and ready the table, so she’d immediately fallen behind in her preparations. Even Mr. Creakle and Mr. Smalls had been pulled away from their guard duties when they’d been summoned with many other off-duty miners to help clear the roof of the storehouse. Because of its large size, the structure had a flat top, and the accumulation of snow was threatening to bring it all down. Since the storehouse was vital to the camp’s survival, anyone not assigned to mining work had been enlisted.

  Already worried by the figure she’d seen watching the house that morning, Willow had tried to concentrate on her tasks. But the weather had made the children fractious. Their pitiful cries had eased only when Willow held them and walked around and around the keeping room. Because she could feed only one of them at a time, their schedules had become staggered, and it seemed she had no sooner fed and calmed one infant before the other would begin to cry.

  Since she’d spent so much time with the babies, the laundry had begun to pile up. A stack of soiled diapers waited in a basket at the side door, a mortifying symbol for all the world to see that she was unable to cope. By mid-afternoon, Willow was exhausted and her plans for the perfect dinner gave way to something hot to eat. Dishes began to mount in the sink. She grew jumpy, listening for a creak on the stoop to signal that Creakle or Smalls had returned, or that Charles had come home early—anything that might mean she could catch just a few minutes sleep so that she could think coherently. But every time she was sure she heard a noise, she would step to the window to see...

  Nothing. Nothing but wind-driven snow flinging itself at the glass.

  Yet even in that nothingness...she felt as if she were being watched.

  A sob rose in her throat, but she pushed it back. She wasn’t some hysterical ninny. She had no reason to cry. She’d endured far worse than a few sleepless nights and some dirty dishes.

  So why did she feel so...weepy?

  A bang at the door caused her to start and she whirled to stare at the rough wooden planks. For a moment, she couldn’t move, a sense of doom growing in her chest.

  What if it was Jenny’s killer?

  What if—

  “Willow? It’s Charles.”

  She rushed toward the familiar deep voice as if it were a lifeline. Throwing the bolt, she whipped open the door. Then, before she could speak or even move to allow him room to come inside, she burst into tears.

  Chapter Fourteen

  To his credit, Charles didn’t turn and run. Instead, he strode toward her, slamming the door shut behind him. Then, before she could even explain, he pulled her into his arms.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Willow could hear the alarm in his voice, but she couldn’t seem to form words, so she clung to him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. All the frustrations of the day, her fear, her loneliness, her weariness, poured from her in a storm of emotion. Only after he held her for long, aching moments was she able to stammer, “B-babies crying...window...s-someone...”

  Then the sobs made even those words incomprehensible.

  To his credit, Charles seemed to know what to do. He enfolded her even more tightly in his arms, offering her his warmth and strength. He made soft shushing noises, much as he would when Eva cried as if her heart would break if her bottle was too long in coming.

  Willow tried to calm herself, but his tenderness caused her to cry even harder.

  Charles was such a good man—the kind of person any woman would want to marry. But she knew that as soon as he saw the mess around him, he would throw her out into the snow. He’d always kept his house neat and orderly. He would have no use for a woman who couldn’t do the same.

  “Willow, Willow. Talk to me,” he murmured next to her ear. “Please, talk to me. Has someone hurt you?”

  She shook her head against his chest.

  “Are you sick?”

  “N-no.”

  “Then what? Tell me so I can help you.”

  She sobbed, then finally stammered, “I—I’m a h-h-horrible wife. A h-h-horrible mother.”

  “What? Why would you say such a thing?”

  He drew back so that he could look at her. But Willow found it difficult to meet his gaze.

  “I—I burned the d-d-dinner and the children were crying. There’re diapers on the doorstep and dishes in the sink. And...and...”

  “And you’re wonderful,” he whispered. “Wonderful.”

  She tried to shake her head, but he drew her close again, rocking her slightly.

  “Maybe it was too soon for me to go back to the mine.”

  The statement was so shocking, so completely unexpected, it was her turn to draw back. “No! It’s because of me that you lost your job in the first place! I should be able to cope with everything. I shouldn’t be—”

  “Stop it. You haven’t done anything wrong, Willow.”

  “But...” Her eyes flooded with tears again. “The mess.”

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I don’t see a mess.”

  “But—”

  “I see a home, Willow. This...” He gestured to the room around them. “This is the first sign of life this house has ever had. Before you and the twins came, I had four walls and shelter from the cold. But now...” He shook his head with something akin to wonder. “Now, I see life and motion and purpose.”

  He cupped her face with his palms. Those broad, strong palms. And the tears nearly came again—not from distress this time, but from the way that he made her feel.

  Loved.

  Cherished.

  “I should have told you how you amaze me,” he continued. “You’re kind and loving and honorable. Any man would be proud to have you as his helpmate. And the fact that you’ve managed to juggle as many of these new duties as you have amazes me. In the space of a few hours, you became a wife and the mother of twins.” His voice rose in emphasis. “Any other woman would have had time to come to terms with those facts. Instead, you’ve married a stranger and adopted Adam and Eva into your heart as if they were your own. I think that’s amazing.”

  She tried to sha
ke her head again, but he held her fast.

  “Amazing,” he whispered again. “And I should have helped more.”

  “No, you’ve—”

  Again he stopped her.

  “Yes. I should have helped you with the midnight feedings last night. Instead, as a thoughtful wife, you let me sleep so that I could be well rested when I returned to work. I doubt you’ve had more than three hours sleep in the last twenty-four.”

  Again, the telling tears gathered.

  “Any man would be lucky to have you as his wife, Willow.”

  She opened her mouth, knowing that he needed to know the rest. But she hesitated, fearing that Charles wouldn’t be so quick to praise her if he knew that she was the product of a less than sterling past. Her father had been imprisoned for debt. And a childhood spent at a charity school had left her barely able to read and write. She couldn’t imagine how any man—especially one as honorable as Charles—could know such things and continue to regard her as his equal. As his partner.

  Tears flooded her eyes again, plunging down her cheeks.

  Charles frowned, wiping them away with his thumbs.

  “Shh. Shh. You’re worn-out, ye are.” His brogue, which was usually no more than a soft lilt, became more pronounced. “Right now, me dearlin’, ye need sleep. Get yourself up to bed and I’ll bring ye a tray. Then, after you’ve eaten, I want ye to sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Shh. I’ll have no more arguments. Tonight, I’ll take care of the wee bairns.”

  “But dinner—”

  “I’ll rescue what I can, and barring all else, I can manage an egg and some tea.”

  He placed a kiss on her forehead.

  “Upstairs wi’ ye.”

  Reluctantly, she broke away. But even as she regarded the messy keeping room, the dirty dishes, and heard the first faint baby grumbles coming from Adam—who would soon want to eat—she felt an inexplicable lightness settling around her heart.