Accidental Family

by Lisa Bingham

  But when attention swayed in his direction, there was no censure, no judgment. Merely an expectation that he would step into the role he had donned upon the resignation of their official pastor.

  Reluctantly, he stepped forward and turned to face the assembled group.

  Almost immediately, Willow found herself flanked by Sumner and Lydia. They linked their arms through hers, shoring her up.

  “On this sad occasion,” Charles began, his voice low and deep and filled with the same thread of grief that Willow herself was feeling, “I would like to quote from the Bible, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14.” He took a deep breath, his eyes closing. “‘Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.’” Charles’s voice gradually rose in volume and intensity. “‘For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in Him.’”

  A chorus of “Amens” punctuated the recitation. Then Charles bowed his head to pray.

  Willow could no longer contain her tears as Charles appealed to God to accept Jenny into his fold, to offer her peace and happiness in the eternities. He appealed to the Lord to bless those who had been left behind, to strengthen them and shore them up as they mourned.

  Although Willow had heard Charles offer his sermons in the past, the richness of his sincerity and the strength of his conviction rang from his words, affecting her more powerfully than they ever had before. Charles was no longer a stranger among a sea of strangers. She had seen him through good times and bad. She’d felt his strength and his gentleness. She’d witnessed firsthand the depth of his character and his capacity for compassion.

  And she’d nearly lost him to the same evil that had taken Jenny.

  Squeezing her eyes as tight as she could, she offered her own fervent prayer.

  Please, Lord, help us to find the source of all this wickedness. Help us to find the person responsible for Jenny’s death so that her children can be safe. And please, please...protect the man I...

  Love.

  The word sprang into her mind, and she found that she didn’t have the strength to drive it away. She might have known Charles for only a short time, but she already knew him better than she’d ever known another living soul. It was as if a part of her recognized him from another time or place. From the moment she’d joined him to protect the twins, she had felt something within her bloom. He was more than a friend, more than a helpmate.

  He was Charles.

  Her Charles.

  “Dear Lord, at this time, we ask that you dedicate this spot as the final resting place on earth for the corporal remains of Jenny Reichmann. And in doing so, we know that her soul is now in Thy keeping. Amen.”

  Willow lifted her head, heedless of the tears that spilled from her lashes and plunged down her cheeks. Instantly, her eyes locked with Charles’s. And in their depths she saw the same fire of determination that burned in her own soul.

  They would find Jenny’s killer and bring that person to justice.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After the funeral, the mourners gathered in the cook shack. Women from the Dovecote had laid out platters of sliced cold meats and cheeses, pickles and relishes, cornbread and rolls. Pots of hot coffee and tea stood on the serving counter next to stacks of mugs and plates. At the far end were pans of cobblers made from dried apples, cherries and raisins, walnuts and pecans.

  As the men filled their plates, their conversation remained low and somber. The women stood uncertainly for a moment. After they served the meals each day, it had become customary for them to eat at the farm table in the preparation area. But today, the...separateness between the brides and the miners seemed wrong somehow. One by one, the women joined the men at the tables.

  Willow and Charles found places at the end of a trestle table near the door. As they ate, the other occupants seemed to regard them as the closest thing to Jenny’s next of kin. One by one, they filed by to offer a few words of comfort.

  “My deepest sympathies, Mrs. Wanlass. Mr. Wanlass.”

  “It’s a shame to lose anyone so young.”

  The men seemed genuinely mournful about Jenny’s passing. Inexplicably, their kind words helped Willow to cope with the situation. She’d been too young when her mam had passed to comprehend what had really happened, and her father...

  He’d been buried in a pauper’s grave before she even knew that he’d died.

  “This must be very difficult for you, Mrs. Wanlass.”

  Willow looked up to find that the crew from the train stood at their table.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr....”

  “Niederhauser. I was the engineer on the train.” He waited a beat before adding, “I take it that you and Miss Reichmann were friends.”

  “Yes, we met in Liverpool when we both began our journey.”

  “Then you must have grown very close.”

  “Mmm.”

  He opened his mouth, clearly intending to say more, but a glance in Charles’s direction seemed to stop him.

  “My condolences, ma’am.”

  Finally, all the attendees seemed to have said their piece, because Willow and Charles were left alone.

  Willow stared down at her plate. She knew she should taste something. The brides had gone to so much effort—and once she returned home, she had so many things to do.

  No.

  Once she returned home, she would hold little Eva and Adam until she couldn’t hold them any longer.

  Charles took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Eat,” he said gently. “You need your strength.”

  She poked at her food. She couldn’t ever remember being so exhausted.

  No. Not exhausted.

  Hollow.

  Longing for a friend she would never talk to again.

  Charles seemed to understand, because he didn’t rush her. He allowed her to sift through her thoughts and catalog her memories, until finally, she cut off a small piece of ham.

  The crowd thinned, and she could hear the women talking in low murmurs in the kitchen. After having volunteered at the cook shack herself, she found the familiar noises comforting.

  And yet...

  Her nape seemed to prickle, and she looked behind her, noting that the gentleman with the muttonchop whiskers was staring at her again.

  “Charles?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who’s the man behind us?”

  Charles glanced over his shoulder, then back again.

  “Theo Caruso.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not really, no. I’ve never worked with him on a shift. Why?”

  “He keeps staring our way. He was watching us during the funeral, too.”

  Charles took her hand. “Stay away from him if you can.”

  “Why?”

  His thumb rubbed over her knuckles. “I hate to say anything against a man without talking to him myself. But Gideon seems to think he’s...troubled.”

  “Troubled?”

  Charles shrugged. “I don’t know much more than that. According to Gideon, he’s broken one of the camp rules. Until we cross him off our list of suspects, I’d like you to be careful. If he knocks on our door, don’t open it unless I’m there.”

  “I won’t.”

  But as she bent back to her food, the little hairs at her nape still prickled uneasily.

  * * *

  When they returned home, Charles felt as if he’d been toiling away at the mines with a pickax. His body was exhausted, his mind numb. And all he craved was the quiet peace of an evening with his wife and children.

  Willow seemed to be of the same mind, because as soon as Creakle and Smalls had said their goodbyes, she’d shrugged out of her cape and
jacket, and hurried to where the babies lay sleeping on a quilt on the floor. They would be needing cradles soon, something that Jonah Ramsey had hinted was already being arranged.

  Charles bolted the doors, lit the lamps and coaxed the fire into rollicking flames. Then he shrugged out of his own jacket. Before joining Willow, he removed the diary from its hiding place and carried it with him as he joined his wife in the wooden chair that had somehow become his, while the tufted seat was now hers.

  He didn’t immediately open the book. Instead, he set it on the floor.

  While his back was turned, Willow had scooped Adam into her arms. The wee lad remained asleep, but Charles knew that didn’t matter. He suspected that Willow drew comfort from his tiny warm body.

  Charles lifted Eva against him and was rewarded with the barest slit of her eyes. For a moment, she seemed ready to fall back asleep. But then her Cupid’s bow mouth opened and her tongue appeared. Slowly, sleepily, she arched her back, blinked up at Charles, then smiled.

  “She’s smiling at me.” He couldn’t prevent the words that burst from his lips. Nor could he disguise his wonder.

  “Sumner says babies can’t smile this early. She says that the baby probably has a bubble in her stomach.”

  No. She’d smiled.

  Charles rested his pinkie against the wee bairn’s fist, and she reached out to grasp it, trying to carry it to her mouth.

  “She’s going to be a strong lassie.”

  Willow offered a wry grimace. “She’ll have to be to keep up with Adam. He already has a stubborn streak.”

  Charles caught her gaze, and once again, his heart seemed to speak before his brain could think of the consequences. “We make quite a little family, don’t we?”

  Willow could have made light of his comment—and he almost wished she would. But her tone was soft and sweet as she offered, “Yes. We do.”

  The admission brought such a note of longing to the night that Charles found it almost painful to bear. There were still so many unanswered questions. Who had killed Jenny? Why were the children in danger? And what would become of their little family once the riddle had been solved?

  Knowing that there would be no real answers that night, Charles shifted Eva to one arm, then bent to pick up the journal. “How far back should I go?”

  Willow’s brow creased. Then she ran a finger over Adam’s brow, and darned if the little boy’s lips didn’t twitch at the corners.

  “Last February? April? If the twins were born in January...”

  Charles rested the book on his knee and rifled through the pages.

  “February it is.”

  Then he began to read.

  * * *

  It was as if she was being offered a bedtime story, Willow decided. Charles’s voice was deep and resonant, full of inflection and emotion. The entries read like a novel—a tempestuous romance, a declaration of undying love, a bittersweet parting. Willow had to keep reminding herself that the words had been written by a real person and not one of the Brontës.

  For hours, they pored over every page, while outside the wind began to blow, rattling the windows and causing the lantern flames to dance from a stray draft. In all that time, Jenny never mentioned the name of the man who had courted her. She merely referred to him as “Beloved.”

  Through it all, the babies woke and were fed, played, fussed, then fell asleep again. Yet Willow noticed that Charles seemed as reluctant as she was to place them back in their basket.

  The last few entries were the hardest. Jenny spoke of her excitement at traveling west to meet up with her Beloved. How she counted the days, the hours. She spoke of the devastating power of the avalanche that had swept their train from its tracks, then awakening to the fear that her baby had been harmed, her joy when she felt it move inside her. Then suddenly, she wrote: I’ve seen my Beloved! And even though I’ve confronted him, here in a place where I’ve been forbidden to be, I can’t regret following him.

  Charles glanced up. “She saw him? In Bachelor Bottoms? So, was this where she’d secretly planned to come all along?”

  Willow opened her mouth to agree, but something was needling her, flirting at the edge of her consciousness. Something important that she needed to grasp before it flitted away.

  Oblivious to her unease, Charles continued to think aloud. “Then the person responsible has to be a miner. We’ve got three company men on our suspect list. Theo Caruso, Orie Keefe and Francis Diggory. I know for a fact that Theo joined us less than six months ago. Orie in the summer. Either one of them could have been the man who jilted Jenny. That ring they found clutched in her hand could have come from any of them.”

  Yes, yes, it all made sense.

  Except...

  And then it hit her, the fact that had slipped through her fingers.

  “Charles,” Willow said slowly. “Charles, I think we’ve overlooked something. An important clue.”

  He met her gaze, his excitement dimming.

  “Charles, in the diary, she never mentioned marrying her Beloved.”

  Charles’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair. “Which means we’ve increased our suspect list again.”

  “Yes. But we’ve found a stronger motive, as well.”

  * * *

  Willow shivered, dragging the quilt tighter around her neck. A peek beneath her lashes assured her that it was still early. Dawn hadn’t yet begun to rim the mountains. Peering over the side of the cot, she saw that the children slept soundly. It wouldn’t be long before they would awaken for their meal, but for now...

  She would settle back beneath the covers and enjoy the last few minutes of sleep.

  But even as she wriggled deeper into the puddle of warmth she’d created, she became more conscious of the cold. Her feet were chilled, her fingers stiff. Her nose felt pinched and icy.

  Blinking, she cast a glance toward the window, wondering if it had somehow come open during the night. But the curtains were still.

  She shivered and threw back the quilts. Blindly, she felt around for her slippers, but her toes seemed to have turned into blocks of ice.

  Charles had told Willow that he would set the fires before he left. He and the rest of his crew had finished laying the charges for the new tunnel, then had kept a crew of Pinkertons guarding them overnight. They’d all met early this morning to detonate the explosives before the early bird shift came to work.

  Fearing the children had grown cold, as well, she threw an extra blanket over their basket and quickly dressed in her warmest day gown. Then she grasped the basket and hurried downstairs.

  Just as she’d feared, it was obvious that Charles had laid and lit the fire, but somehow, it had gone out. She rearranged the logs and began again. The fire that finally caught seemed smoky, making her wonder if snow had been blown down the chimney.

  While the flames struggled to light the larger logs, she moved into the kitchen to poke up the coals on the stove. Again, she could see evidence that Charles had started the process. A teakettle had been set on one of the burners and a pail of snow waited to be melted. But when she touched the surface, the metal was stone cold.

  She bent to peer into the grate, only to discover nothing but black ashes.

  She quickly set a new fire, then hurried back to the fireplace.

  “What on earth?”

  The flames had finally begun to grow, but instead of the smoke rising upward, a black cloud billowed into the room.

  Too late, she realized that the chimney wasn’t drawing properly. But by now, the logs had caught fire and the blaze grew stronger with each passing moment.

  “No, no, no, no, no!”

  She whirled toward the kitchen for the pail of snow, only to discover that smoke poured from the range, as well.

  A glance toward the children revealed that she didn’t have much time to act.
Grabbing a carpetbag, she hurriedly gathered a few of their things together—diapers, bottles, a change of clothing from the drying cord, extra blankets. Then she looped her arm through the handle and reached for the twins.

  Not taking time to put on her coat, she rushed outside. She wasn’t sure what had happened to keep the chimney and the stovepipe from drawing, but she couldn’t afford to stay indoors any longer to investigate. Nor would she leave the children alone out of doors. She would hurry down to the livery. If Mr. Smalls was there, she could ask for his help.

  She dodged toward the lean-to, where the children’s sledge had been stored, and stowed the twins in the box, the carpetbag on the bench. Then she pulled the children into town. But when she reached the livery, she discovered that the doors were locked. Too late, she realized that Creakle and Smalls had probably been summoned to the mine with the rest of Charles’s crew.

  Anxious, she gazed around her. But the street was curiously empty.

  The Dovecote.

  There would be Pinkertons outside the women’s dormitory. She could ask them for help, then take shelter with the other women until someone could check on the chimneys.

  Grasping the handle of the sledge, she ran toward the far end of town, then turned down the lane. Her boots slipped and skidded in the snow, and her breath came in deep, shuddering breaths that seemed to burn in her lungs before escaping again in a puff of white.

  She was nearly there when she saw a movement at one of the windows. Seconds later, the door whipped open and Lydia ran to meet her.

  “Willow, what’s wrong?”

  Willow nearly collapsed in her arms. “The house. There’s smoke building up and I had to get the children out. I didn’t have a chance to put out the fire in the hearth or...”

  By this time, some of the other women had begun to hurry outside.

  Lydia directed them with one hand, the other still supporting Willow’s quivering frame. “Marie, Greta! Take the babies and their things inside. Myra and Miriam, go round up our guards—especially Mr. Gault, if you can find him. Tell them to double-time it to the Wanlass house before the whole thing burns down.”